


The Return of the Thing

by Popcornjones



Series: Sherlock's Return Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Asexual Sherlock, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Cock & Ball Torture, Cuckold fantasy, Cuckolding, Drug Addict Sherlock, Faked Suicide, Fluff and Smut, Genital Torture, Gratuitous Smut, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealous Sherlock, John in mourning, John-centric, Kidnapped John, Kidnapping, Love, Love Triangle, M/M, Non-con touching, Nonmonogamous Relationship, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining John, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Profanity, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Sherlock in rehab, Sherlock in therapy, Sherlock on Drugs, Smut, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top John, Top John Watson, Torture, Virgin Sherlock, knife fight!, the other man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9473033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: After the Riechenbach fall, John is devastated and alone. When Sherlock returns from the dead, he finds that John has moved on in unexpected ways. How can Sherlock apologize? How can he win John's heart? And is John in danger?Let's pretend seasons 3 & 4 don't exist - they're nowhere near as good as the first two.





	1. That Adrenalin High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has been mourning Sherlock's death for over a year. A bit of a dust-up makes him feel better than he has in ages.

John wasn't sure how it happened. One second he was still mourning Sherlock's death, still beating himself up for not seeing it coming, not being there when Sherlock had needed him – as he had been for long over a year. The next second ... well...    
   
Mike dragged him out for a pint. John didn't want to go, but it was Mike. Mike had brought he and Sherlock together. John felt like he owed Mike – rationally, he knew he didn't, Mike didn't do anything special. He just introduced two men, both in search of a roommate that each believed could not exist. Mike couldn't know how lonely they each were, how isolated. How much they would help each other. But it FELT like he owed Mike... more than just gratitude – he owed a debt. That Sherlock had died didn't cancel it out – on the contrary, it made what Mike had done even more precious.  
   
So, long story short, John went out for a pint with Mike.   
   
And it was a non-event. He and Mike drank a little beer and talked about their school days and their current work. There were probably some attractive women there, but John didn’t feel up to trying to pull a date.  
   
They were at a table near the door, people coming in and out. When John went up for another round, the bartender – a petite blonde – was flirty. John noticed, but there was no point in flirting back. She was probably just trying to cheer him up anyway.  
   
And then…  
   
And then two men came in wearing balaclavas. They had guns and they announced that all the patrons had to go stand at the far side of the room and get their wallets out whilst the bartender emptied the register into their bag.  
   
John felt ALIVE. For the first time in a year, the heaviness on his spirit was simply GONE. Everything appeared brighter and more real.  
   
He looked around – before the thieves had even finished their speech – and assessed his options. One against two – two with guns – not great odds. Then he made eye contact with another man on the other side of the thieves. John KNEW by the way he was standing, by the way he was assessing the situation – very much like John was – that he had military or police training. Their eyes met and John nodded once and...  
  
... THEY LAUNCHED INTO ACTION!  
   
John disarmed the man closest to him, grabbing his gun hand and chopping his forearm, making him drop the gun, then John swung him around by the arm, twisting it, and shoved him, hard, against the wall by the door. The man struggled and John punched him twice in the kidneys. He cruelly twisted the man's arm farther up behind his back. The man cried out and John twisted harder. "Shut up!" He said.  
   
He looked around. The other thief was on the ground, face down, the man John had made eye contact with and a man in a dark green overcoat were on top of him. Mike was gingerly holding both guns.  
   
“Call the police.” John commanded the bartender. She just stared at him. “Come on, the police! NOW!” He barked. She swallowed her shock and nodded, turned and picked up a phone.  
   
“Mike.” He said. “Put the guns down on the bar carefully.” John’s guy got wiggly so he had to shove him against the wall again and punch him a few more times. Another man stepped up to help, putting his hand on the back of the man's neck and throwing his weight against him. “Let’s get him down on the floor.” John said. He twisted the thief’s arm savagely and he and his helper got him down with a minimum of fuss.  
   
Then they had to wait for the police to show up.  
  
"Maybe we should hold a gun on them?" John's helper suggested. "Easier to keep them down."  
  
John took a better look at the guns laying on the bar. "They're fake." He said.  
  
"You can tell that from here?"  
  
"Yeah. Yes." John's tone said 'I know what I'm talking about.' The man in the green coat looked at him assessingly. He was blonde and handsome in a sharp-featured way with permanent lines between his eyebrows that lent disapproval to his expression. John looked away.  
  
Long minutes later, the coppers finally arrived and the thieves were handed over. John, Mike and the other men who had acted were taken to a station house to give statements, along with the bartender and a few of the other patrons. When John looked around, the blonde man in the unusual dark green overcoat was not among them.  
   
"Wasn't there another bloke?" John asked the group. "Blonde fellow?"   
   
"Yeah" Said the man who had locked eyes with John and taken out the other thief. He looked like an older, craggier Freddie Mercury, his thick dark hair combed back and his chin eternally blue with five-o-clock shadow. “Expensive coat. He scarpered before the police showed up." He extended his hand. "I’m Jason.”  
   
“John.” They shook hands. “This is Mike.”  
   
“Shane.” Jason indicated the man who had helped John. Shane was thinner than Jason, lean and rawboned. He had shaggy brown hair and brown eyes and he would never be the man who was noticed first. Or second. But John liked the intelligence sparkling in his eyes. “You’re military?” Jason asked.  
   
“Yeah.” John said. “Army. You?”  
   
“RAF.”  
   
“You’re a pilot?”  
   
“Yeah.” He definitely had the self-confidence of a pilot. “For British Air now.”  
   
“You too?” John asked Shane.  
   
“Oh. No. Jason’s my cousin. I’m a writer.”  
   
“John is a writer too.” Mike offered.  
   
Shane looked interested. “Really? What sort of things do you write?”  
   
“I’m not a writer.” John said. “I had a blog for a while that was relatively popular. What do you write?”  
   
“Oh. Some true crime stuff. Things like that.”  
   
“He’s being modest.” Jason said. “He has four novels out. Twisty crime stories.”  
   
“Then you’d LOVE John’s blog.” Mike said. John kicked him. “Ow.”  
   
“Sorry, mate.”  
   
Shane had the tolerant, bored expression of a writer being told that someone’s friend who kept a blog on the internet was a writer too. “What is it about?”  
   
“It’s nothing.” John said. “Are you working on another book?”  
   
“Starting to. I do a lot of research first. It’s my favourite part, tracking down stories and the details that are all but forgotten. Putting it all together.” Shane smiled at John. “If you’re not a writer, what do you do?”  
   
“I’m a doctor. Both Mike and I – we met in medical school.”  
   
Shane raised his eyebrows in interest. “What’s your specialty?”  
   
“Erm, trauma surgery. Emergency medicine – I was an army doctor up until a few years ago.”  
   
“Where were you deployed?” Jason asked.  
   
“Afghanistan. Three tours. Almost three. I didn’t quite make it to the end.”  
   
“John got shot.” Mike interjected.  
   
“Right. I’m sorry.”  
   
“It’s fine.” John said. “Though I don’t recommend it.”  
   
“What have you been doing since?”  
   
“Oh. Erm, this and that. There’s always a clinic in need of some help.”  
   
“Aren’t you a bit …overqualified for that?” Shane asked.  
   
“Tremendously.” Mike said. “I’ve been trying to get him on staff at St. Barts. But he prefers to be itinerant.”  
   
“An itinerant doctor. I like that.” Shane said.  
   
John smiled. It felt strange on his face. He hadn’t smiled genuinely in a year.  
   
A uniformed police officer came up and consulted his notes.  “Jason Bruno?”  
  
“That’s me.” He was escorted away to make his statement. Mike was taken a minute later.  
   
“I would like to ask you some questions that have come up in my research – get your medical opinion." Shane said to John. "More trauma from crime than from war, but I’d guess it’d translate.”  
   
“It does.” John said. Shane looked at him questioningly. “I’ve consulted for the police a bit.”  
   
“You really do get around.” Shane looked disgusted. “That was supposed to be a joke on itinerant.”  
   
“I got it.” John felt that unfamiliar smile again.  
   
“It just wasn’t funny.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Listen, after we’re done here, can I buy you a drink?”  
   
“Sure, yeah.”  
   
It was half ten by the time they were finished at the police station. Mike said he was tired and grabbed a taxi for home. Jason looked at Shane and some silent communication passed between them, and Jason begged off too.  
   
“Are you hungry?” Shane asked.  
   
“Starving.” John said. And he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he had an appetite.  
   
“There’s a good Thai place near here.”  
   
They had curry and cocktails, then more cocktails.  
   
Shane had quite a few questions for John about different kinds of wounds and how long it would take to die from them, what sort of damage certain weapons would wreak and what weapons had made certain wounds.   
   
"I have photos I'd like you to take a look at – I'll pay your consulting fee of course – if you'd be willing."  
   
"Yeah, sure."  
   
"I can see why the police used you – how did you get into that?"  
   
For the first time since the robbery, John felt a finger of gloom. "Erm...story for another time." John said.  
   
Shane looked at him quizzically, but John wanted to hold onto his good mood. "Another round?" He asked, and left for the bar before Shane could answer.  
   
When he returned a few minutes later with their drinks, Shane didn’t press. He asked instead about Afghanistan. John told him about the heat and the sand and the people and what it was like working in a field hospital. It didn’t seem like they talked for very long, but suddenly John realized that the restaurant was closing and wanted them out.  
   
“Wow.. (ahem)… those drinks were stronger than I realized.” John said, when they were out on the pavement. He blinked a few times. “I think I’m going to walk a bit, try to clear my head.”  
   
Shane fell into step beside him.  
   
It was a misty night, the cool vapor coated everything making it damp and sparkly under the lamps. It collected on John’s jacket and jeans, on Shane’s trench coat and in his chestnut hair. Everything seemed a little magical through the haze of fog and rum drinks.  
   
So when Shane said, “I really like you, John.” And leaned in to kiss him, John let it happen. It felt so different from kissing a woman – Shane was so much stronger and rougher, his chin sandpapery against John’s cheek, and hungrier, more demanding. John liked it.  
   
‘It’s the rum.’ He told himself. He pulled away, “Shane, I’m not gay.” John said.  
   
“I won’t hold it against you.” Shane said and kissed him again.  
   
John grabbed a fistful of damp, wavy hair and pulled Shane closer. “You do have something you could hold against me.” He murmured, pressing his thigh against Shane’s crotch. He smiled into the kiss as he felt Shane harden.  
   
Shane pushed John back against the wall of a shop, his hands finding their way inside his jacket, his leg pressing between John’s. John moaned in arousal.  
   
“OI!” Someone yelled, and then there was a loud whistle. They broke apart and found a copper approaching them. “Move along or I’ll have you for public indecency.” He said.  
  
“Erm, sorry!” John mumbled as Shane grabbed his hand and they ran down the street together laughing. It felt so good to laugh! It felt good to be aroused.  
   
“My place isn’t far.” Shane said. “Come home with me, John.”

John was very tempted. He felt GOOD right now, better than he had in fifteen months, maybe more. He wanted to hold onto that feeling.

Instead, John picked up Shane’s hand and caressed it. “I think I’m too drunk.” He said. “But maybe next time?”

Shane’s smile was genuine. “I’ll call you then.”

“You better.” John pulled him in and they kissed again. Then he watched Shane walk away.

Neither of them noticed the man in the dark green coat watching John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of BAMF John for your entertainment. Everybody loves sexy BAMF John.


	2. One Perfect Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a memory both cherished and haunting.

After Moriarty’s incarceration for stealing the crown jewels and etc., but before his trial, something had happened. Not a big thing like being kidnapped and having explosives strapped to his chest (or being kidnapped and tied to a chair in a tunnel, or being called to Buckingham Palace). It was a small thing, a single moment. 

Sherlock was watching crap telly. John joined him on the couch. It was late, John dozed off. He had a vague memory of pushing Sherlock to move down the couch, but maybe he hadn’t pushed him. John woke up with Sherlock’s arms around him. He was laying on his back, sort of on Sherlock’s lap, sort of pressed against his chest, and Sherlock was holding him. 

As he opened his eyes, Sherlock brushed a bit of John’s hair back from his temple. It was very tender. There had been SOMETHING between them for a long time – something undefined but electric. John had suspected off and on that Sherlock’s feelings for him were more than one would have for a friend. But then The Woman came along and John dismissed it as fancy. Besides, John wasn’t gay.

But in that moment, Sherlock’s face was so vulnerable, so loving, and John felt suddenly that he COULD feel the same. That he did. 

John reached out and touched a cheekbone that blushed pink under his fingers, and brought his lips up to meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t breathe. John kissed him chastely, then lightly gripped his neck and pulled him closer. He ran his tongue between Sherlock’s lips, requesting permission… and Sherlock kissed him back, his mouth crushing John's hungrily... 

For one perfect moment, they were together.

Then Sherlock pulled away. He abruptly pushed John off his lap and stood up. “I’m sorry, John… I can’t do this. I can’t be distracted right now!” Sherlock cried out, a touch of desperation in his voice, and stalked off to his bedroom. 

John was shocked. He retreated to his own bedroom feeling very hurt ...but also relieved. They’d gone there and it hadn’t worked. Now he could put it to rest once and for all.

But he couldn’t. Even before Sherlock’s suicide, John couldn’t stop thinking about it. Once he had gone THERE in his mind, he couldn’t come back. 

Then Sherlock died and it was worse. Now there was NO chance that they could be together. John was riddled with regrets – they’d never talked about that kiss, they’d both just acted like it had never happened. But Sherlock had said “I can’t be distracted RIGHT NOW.” John wished he had asked what was so important then – he'd simply assumed it was Moriarty. Maybe if he'd asked he would have seen Sherlock’s depression, seen the suicide coming somehow. Helped him.

Maybe Sherlock would be sitting next to him on the couch right now.


	3. A Real Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets to know Shane better.

Their first real date was a week later. Late Saturday afternoon, Shane took John to the Crime Museum exhibit at the London Museum. They browsed through, Shane talking about some of his research, asking for John’s professional opinion on some of the exhibits. John really enjoyed it.   
   
They got Indian for dinner, again sharing curries, but John stuck to drinking beer. He liked Shane, he was attracted to him, but he wanted to be sober for whatever happened next. He wanted to go in with his eyes open. Or NOT go in. He hadn’t decided.  
   
“Tell me more about yourself, John. I feel like I’ve been talking all evening.” Shane said.  
   
“There’s not much to tell… honestly it’s kind of a downer.”  
   
“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to – but I’m interested.”  
   
John grimaced. “You’ll be sorry you said that.” He thought a moment, ordering his thoughts. “You know most of it. I spent seven years in Afghanistan. After I was shot, it took… six months – no longer – before I fully recovered. Lots of physical therapy. I … getting shot… it’s very isolating. Everything changed. All the people I knew, the familiar places were gone. I was back in London, a civilian. I don’t have family I’m close to. I was really… alone.  
   
“What did you do?” Shane asked with real interest.  
   
“I made new friends.” John said. “Actually, I made an important friend. He was alone too. I think we both found something we needed.”  
   
“He was your boyfriend?”  
   
“Oh, no. We were flatmates, best friends, but that’s all.” John frowned. “ No, it was more – we were… family.”   
   
Shane nodded sympathetically. “I get it. What happened?”  
   
John sighed. “He died.”  
   
“Oh! John, I’m so sorry…”  
   
John’s smile felt more like a grimace. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
   
“How long ago?”  
   
“Over a year – fifteen months or so, I guess. It still feels like yesterday. I didn’t realize HOW important that friendship was… we worked together, we lived together. Half the time I took care of him, the other half I made excuses for him… but it was… really great. I feel like the most interesting parts of my life died with him. And I found myself alone again.”  
   
Shane impulsively took John’s hand. Sounds like you've had a rough time.”  
   
John smiled tiredly. “Yeah. The sick thing is, taking out that guy in the pub, that’s the best I’ve felt since.”  
   
“That’s not sick. I felt pretty good WATCHING you take him out.”   
   
John smiled at him and interlaced their fingers, feeling a spark of happiness growing.   
   
They left the restaurant and walked. It was full dark, but bright in the city. The streets were bustling, the bars were filling… it was Saturday night.  
   
They walked silently for a while, shoulders bumping now and again, smiling at each other. John thought Shane would ask him back to his flat again… John wondered how he would answer.  
   
They turned off the busy street into a neighborhood. “Do you want to talk about your friend?” Shane asked.  
   
Did he? Yes. And no. John took a deep breath. “I’ve never known anyone like him. He was brilliant, but also completely ignorant. A highly functional idiot-savant. He was the most irritating person – he conducted chemical experiments in our kitchen, saved body parts in our fridge. He was insufferable when he was bored. He would use my things and dismiss my objections as incomprehensible.”  
   
“Wow. Sounds like a great guy.” Shane said laughing.  
   
“Yeah. But he was. He really was. He was exciting – every day was an adventure. You asked how I started consulting with the police? Because HE did and he started bringing me along and telling everyone that he needed me. He didn’t. He really didn’t. But he LIKED having me there. And once in a while having a doctor along was handy.”  
   
“I’ll bet.”  
   
“And I’m a crack shot. That helped out more than once.”  
   
“Not bad with the hand-to-hand combat either.”  
   
John blushed a little. And they walked in silence.   
   
“How did he die?” Shane asked presently.  
   
The wave of despair washed through John. “Suicide.” He said.  
   
“Oh. God, John, that’s terrible.”  
   
“I didn’t see it coming. I was closer to him than anyone and I didn’t see it.” John felt the emotion welling up, threatening to pour out.   
   
Shane gently pulled John into his arms. “It’s not your fault, John.”  
   
“How could I not know?” This had been eating at John. “Everything was fine…it was normal…and then suddenly it wasn’t. I...I never expected that he'd...”  John buried his face in Shane’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go into all this.”  
   
“It’s OK, John. It’s really is. I want to get to know you – and this is part of you.”  
   
“Yeah.” John stepped out of Shane’s embrace and smiled at him ruefully. He held out his hand. “Where are we going?”  
   
Shane took his hand and they interlaced their fingers. “It depends. We could find a quiet bar, have a drink and talk…”  
   
“Or?”  
   
“We could go to mine.”

John examined Shane for a moment. He wasn't handsome but he was VITAL. That was what John liked about him most – he recognized that it was a quality Shane shared with Sherlock. They looked nothing alike, Shane had olive skin and wavy brown hair worn long and floppy – it was his one beauty and his one vanity. He wasn't quite as tall as Sherlock; he was lean, almost too thin as Sherlock was, but he lacked the elegance. Shane wore jeans or khakis, rumpled shirts and slim-cut jumpers under a tan trench coat that had seen better days. He was just an average guy except for the gleam of intelligence in his expression and the incredible vitality that emanated from him. John wondered briefly if he needed that vitality in an unhealthy way – like a vampire needs blood. He dismissed that thought and returned to the question at hand – to go to Shane's flat or not.

He WANTED to go – what was holding him back? Some misplaced allegiance to Sherlock? Internalized homophobia?

Nothing – nothing would hold him back. "Lets go to yours." John said. 

It felt so freeing to have made up his mind.

John, holding Shane's hand, tugged him forward and they started walking again. 

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw movement. He craned his head and just caught sight of bright blond hair and a dark overcoat. He frowned – that seemed familiar. But the figure was gone and John couldn't place him. He hailed a cab.

"This is me." Shane said as their taxi pulled up outside a rather posh town home, the kind that came with keys to a private park. They went in, Shane had the third floor flat – large open living/dining area, larger than the entire flat at 221b Baker St. The well-appointed kitchen was smaller – almost a boxcar kitchen – but open to the dining area so it didn't feel cramped. One corner by the front windows was dominated by a desk with a laptop and stacks of books and papers piled on and around it. A comfortable looking couch sat on a thick area rug opposite a flatscreen telly and a Scandinavian blonde wood dining set that had seen better days lurked near the kitchen.

"Let me take your coat." Shane said. John handed his jacket over and Shane hung it in the front hall. "Would you like a drink? I have beer, wine, water – sparkling and still."

"Beer would be great."

"Make yourself comfortable." Shane said, gesturing at the couch. He joined John a minute later with two bottles of brown ale. John drank a third of his at once, then set it down. 

"I guess I'm a bit nervous." John said.

"That's right, you aren't gay." Shane replied with an eyebrow cocked teasingly.

"I just meant... I've never done this before."

"But...?" Shane asked nudging John's foot with his own.

"But ... I want to."

Shane leaned in and kissed John. It was slower and sweeter than the first time on the street.

John brushed Shane's long fringe to the side, his fingers lingering. Shane leaned into his touch. John pulled him close ...then Shane was in his arms – or he was in Shane's arms – and they were kissing.

John let Shane take the lead – it was an interesting role reversal for him. He found he liked being held in strong arms, liked Shane’s assertive snogging, liked moving against his lean body.

John was hard – they were both hard (a nice bonus of being with a man, no guessing if he were aroused too) – and Shane's hand groped him through his trousers. 

“Jesus, John!” Shane exclaimed. “Where have you been hiding THAT?” He caressed the length and breadth of John’s erection through his jeans.

John felt himself blush. It felt GOOD. And Shane’s hands felt even better.

John moaned. He thumbed Shane's nipples through his shirt. Erect, they were big, the size and firmness of thimbles. John wanted to have them in his mouth. He pushed Shane onto his back and climbed on top of him, fitting their legs so each had a thigh against the others' cock and they could rub and frot because oh, god, that felt fantastic. He took a moment to tongue a nipple through the cloth, eliciting a happy gasp, then lay full length on top of Shane, buried a hand in his thick, chestnut hair and kissed him.

Shane's arms closed around him – he was so strong! – and with a shift, he turned them on their sides with John pinned against the back of the sofa. They lay there, hands moving and gripping and caressing, kissing and licking and nipping, grinding against each other until Shane reached down and started to unfasten John’s jeans.

“Oh!” John mumbled. Shane kissed him once more, then slipped off the couch onto his knees. He was tugging at John’s pants – John sat up and helped him.

Shane bowed his head for a taste. “I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty good cocksucker.” He said. “But I think you’re going to test my limits.”

“It’s not the most convenient…” John said doubtfully. People liked big cocks in theory. In practice, John knew it could challenge even the most willing lover’s anatomy.

“Shut up, it’s gorgeous.” Shane said and dove in.

He was the best cocksucker John had ever had.


	4. Pain, Fear and Numbness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John is mourning him, where is Sherlock? What has he been doing?

Sherlock was miserable. 

He was somewhere in Eastern Europe or Northern Asia – maybe Ukraine. Maybe Kazakhstan. He didn’t know. 

He didn’t care. 

ALL he cared about was scoring.

It usually wasn’t a problem. Sherlock could easily deduce who was selling and what they had. If he needed cash to pay for it, he just had to remember to pickpocket a few wallets BEFORE his hands got shaky with withdrawal. 

But he HADN’T remembered. Or he hadn’t cared when he was high. Or he'd sabotaged himself for some reason he couldn't recall. So now he was penniless and sick. Too sick to think this all through and come up with a plan. Which left him with very few options.

He could try and sell himself – either for cash or for heroin. The thought almost made him laugh it was so ridiculous – a filthy, jittery thirty-five-year old, he couldn't even imagine the customer he could attract. IF Sherlock didn’t have another option – one he felt was just as degrading as prostituting himself – he knew he WOULD be desperately trying to solicit a trick. No, he'd be housebreaking, trying to pick locks with his shaking hands...

And end up in prison. That wouldn't do. 

He would have to send up a signal flare and wait for Mycroft’s people to come get him.

It was galling.

 

\----

 

Mycroft took one look at him. “Rehab!” He said.

“No!” They’d given Sherlock something and he felt better. It wasn’t heroin, it was something they give addicts to help them detox. Sherlock resented it thoroughly.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?! You’re supposed to be tracking down Moriarty’s people, dismantling his networks.”

“I did THAT ages ago.”

“Then why aren’t you home, brother mine? In London? Why are you shooting drugs in the back alleys of Astana?”

“London’s back alleys are policed. Makes getting high less convenient.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s disapproval was scathing.

“What!?” Sherlock demanded.

“Why…“ Mycroft took on an overly patient tone. “Why aren’t you home, in London, solving crimes? You enjoy THAT more than whatever it is you’re injecting into your veins now.”

“Do I? I don’t remember.”

Mycroft sighed. “I’d be of a mind to let you have your little rebellion if it weren’t so… unhealthy. Believe it or not, I’d prefer you DIDN’T die.”

Sherlock shrugged and fiddled with the hem of his shirt. 

“Fine. I’m TAKING you to London.”

“No! I can’t go back yet.” Sherlock suddenly felt sweaty, panic-stricken.

“Why ever not?” Mycroft was losing what little patience he had.

“I just can’t. I have to …finish something first.”

“You just said you’d FINISHED taking apart Moriarty’s network..”

“Not that. Something else. A thing… I have a thing.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I can’t go back to London yet.”

“What ‘thing?’”

“It’s personal.”

“Personal!?” Mycroft almost laughed. “Brother, you don’t HAVE anything personal. EVERYTHING is public. Too public, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask you. I didn’t. And THIS is personal.”

“When you asked for my help, you asked me.”

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

Mycroft huffed unhappily. “No, better you call me than die in some Eastern European drugs den. Mummy would be distraught.” Mycroft regarded Sherlock for a moment. “If you aren’t ‘ready’ for London, where are you going to go?”

“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere.”

“Anywhere but London.”

“Yes.”

“Then how about Scotland? There’s that rehab clinic outside Edinburgh…”

“Not yet, Mycroft. I’m not ready for rehab yet.”

"Because heroin is HELPING you with your 'personal thing?' Seriously, Sherlock, is it helping at all?"

It wasn't. The heroin wasn’t helping – it was just postponing what he had to do. It WAS time to go to rehab.

That realization put him in full tantrum mode. 

He stared furiously at Mycroft.

"Is it?!" Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock shook his head once, hating – HATING – Mycroft for being right.

He was still in tantrum mode when he arrived at Castle Craig in Scotland. The good people who worked there were used to that, however, and didn’t let it phase them. They simply put Sherlock in detox and waited.

And waited. 

Fully detoxed, Sherlock remembered why he had turned to heroin in the first place. The unrelenting misery of his situation – time and distance had done nothing to dull the pain. Only opiates had done that.

Sherlock sunk back into depression. He slept a lot, ate little and spoke less. He missed the lovely reprieve that heroin had allowed, but he found it difficult to care really. Nothing mattered.

"So, Sherlock, I haven't seen you in years. What has brought you back?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked out of the window. He sat in an overstuffed chair with his feet drawn up under him. The healing track marks on his arm itched and he desperately wanted to scratch them, but they had already gotten infected once. Irritating. It didn't matter. He let the irritation drift away. 

"I've followed your career in the papers. It seemed that you were doing well – helping the police solve crimes, helping people with problems. I've even looked at the blog a few times."

Sherlock winced – a ripple of pain through the numb. Of course she noticed – that was her job.

"I also read that you had died."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." He quoted.

"Indeed. Tell me, Sherlock, tell me what triggered your relapse."

Sherlock looked her in the eye. She was trying to help, she'd helped him before – she was observant and really quite clever. "It doesn't matter." He said. 

She waited silently for more. 

Sherlock sighed. He didn't care if she knew or not – but she'd hound him until he told her. "You've seen the blog, you know that my friend writes it."

She nodded. "Dr. Watson. He seems like a handy fellow to have around."

"Yes." Sherlock rubbed at his arm.

"He's your friend."

"Yes." 

She waited a full forty five seconds – until it was obvious that Sherlock would not say more. "I see you shared an address, Sherlock. Is he more than a friend?"

Sherlock looked out the window again. The grounds were lovely and verdant. Sherlock particularly liked the shrubbery – it stood four meters and wound around the gardens. A parking lot spoiled the view.

"Sherlock... ?"

"No. Yes, but no." 

"What does that mean?" She asked.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. But he couldn't maintain it, it drained away too leaving him flat. Might as well tell her. It didn't matter. "Sentiment." Sherlock said dully. "John..." Sherlock rubbed his sleeve against his itching arm. "John – I thought he was safe. Whatever I might have felt for him, it was obvious he could never reciprocate."

"Dr. Watson? You've had... romantic feelings for him for a long time?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"But he did reciprocate?" 

Sherlock looked out the window. "Unexpectedly."

"What do you mean by you 'thought he was safe?' Safe how?"

"I wasn't looking for a lover. I don't want the distraction. I just want to work. The work matters! When I'm working I'm not bored. I don't like being bored."

"I recall. Cocaine was your remedy for boredom." 

Sherlock shrugged. "The work is better."

"So why keep John around at all?"

"I liked having a friend."

"A friend you were in love with."

"That didn't matter. I prefer being celibate. I never bothered him with those feelings." 

"You never thought he might return your feelings?"

Sherlock returned his attention to the shrubbery. "No."

"How did you discover he had feelings for you too?"

Sherlock remembered that night. That wonderful, horrible night. "It was stupid." Sherlock said. "He'd fallen asleep – we were on the couch – and I let him..." Sherlock sighed a long, shuddering sigh. "...lay in my lap." It was starting to rain outside, turning the shrubbery a deep, verdant emerald. "I... indulged myself. Just once, I held him like... like a lover would." Sherlock remembered the warmth, the weight of John in his arms, the way he smelled – faintly of aftershave, musk and wool – the way he had turned into Sherlock's chest and... and... snuggled. Sherlock's heart had broken with love and he knew he could deny John nothing. 

Sherlock had to hide that from Moriarty at all costs. If Moriarty knew HOW MUCH John meant to him, he would kill John. 

"What happened?"

"He woke up." Sherlock felt neither numb nor in pain for a moment. He felt an echo of the joy he'd felt when John had opened his eyes and smiled at him.

"What did he do?"

"He kissed me." The bottomless well of pain returned. He covered his face until he had control of his features. Then he studied the shrubbery, the rain made it more beautiful.

"That wasn't a good thing?"

"No!" Sherlock snapped. "It was a distraction! I was pursuing a criminal mastermind – who was dangerously obsessed with me already. I needed ALL my faculties, all my focus for that! I didn't have the... the bandwidth... to waste!"

"How did Dr. Watson feel when you told him that?"

"John? He was fine. We continued on as before." The numb was creeping back.

"You didn't talk about it?"

"What was there to talk about?" God, his arm itched!

She regarded him closely. "Sherlock, why are you depressed? Right now? What is the cause?"

Sherlock scratched viciously at the track marks on his arm. "I... love John." He said.

"But John loves you too."

"He did."

"Did? You know for certain he no longer loves you? You say you never talked about it."

"It doesn't matter, he thinks I'm dead."

"Wait." Her expression was baleful. "Dr. Watson – John – your friend, your closest companion, the person you are in love with – who you KNOW loved you too – you've LET him believe that you're dead?!" She was incredulous.

"I had to." Sherlock said simply.

"Why?"

"His reaction – it had to be authentic if anyone were to believe in my death."

"For a day, or a week – maybe a month, Sherlock. But a year and a half?! No. It's just cruel."

"But don't you see?! This is our chance! This is how we ... I ... free myself from this... ridiculous sentiment. I would never be free if I'd stayed in London. I needed distance and time."

"How has that been working out? Are you free?"

Sherlock returned his attention to the view. The rain had coated the window, distorting the garden. "Not yet."

"Are you working?"

"You know I'm not!"

"Because your unresolved feelings for John are distracting you."

"YES!" Finally she understood.

"You need to resolve them."

"I need to get rid of them!"

"No. You need to resolve them. You need to talk to John about your feelings – your mutual feelings."

"Impossible."

"Sherlock... if distance and time would make these feelings fade, they would have done – at least a little – by now."

"But... but what if he still feels the same?!"

"You faked your death and let him mourn for a year and a half. His feelings for you ... will be complicated. But if he DOES still return your feelings – why would that be bad?"

"It's a distraction.."

"You're distracted now."

"Yes."

"Talking with him is the only way to... get rid of, for lack of a better term... this distraction."

"But... but if he DOES still love me...?"

"Would that be so terrible?" Her expression silenced his protest. "Sherlock, maybe if you and John were together, THAT would get rid of the distraction."

"How? He would be there..."

"Because you wouldn't be perseverating on it, for one. And maybe you'd actually be happy."

"But.. but ... I don't know how... I couldn't give him what he wants..."

"Why not?"

"I don't know how." He repeated.

"This is new territory for you?"

"Yes!"

"You've never been engaged in a love relationship before."

"Well..."

"You have?"

Sherlock sighed. "I had a friend at University. And there's The Woman. I... I had – have – feelings for both of them."

"But John's different?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He just is." Sherlock stared resolutely at the blurred shrubbery.

"I think you DO know, Sherlock. You know why John is special."

Sherlock hugged his knees tightly to his chest. He forced himself to tell her. "When Irene – and Victor – wanted... a physical relationship... I ... did not. It was easy to be with them, they didn't distract me."

"Mm hmm. You are distracted by your feelings for John because you DO want a physical relationship with him."

"I... I've never wanted that before. I don't want it." Sherlock noticed dots of blood seeping through his sleeve. He'd scratched open the track marks again. God, they itched still.

"Why not? No, don't tell me – it's a distraction."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, after a short adjustment period – one that you'd enjoy – a relationship would not distract you from your work. Quite the opposite."

"But... I don't know how!"

"How to what? Have sex? No one knows how when they start. You learn."

"But..."

"But what?"

"I..." Sherlock was at a loss for words.

"You're afraid." She said matter-of-factly.

He WAS afraid. The numb covered it. The heroin eradicated it. The pain lived within it. Sherlock was afraid.

And his arm ITCHED.


	5. A Sighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees an article in the news about Sherlock.

John woke with sunlight in his eyes – that meant he was in Shane's bed, John's bedroom didn't get morning sun. He smiled.

John rolled over, pressed himself against Shane and fell back asleep.

When John woke again, he was alone in the bed, the smell of brewing coffee permeating the bedroom. He got up and looked around for something to wear – Shane had left a dressing gown. He padded out into the big main room where the windows filled the flat with light. Shane was sitting at his desk staring into his laptop. John went over and kissed his temple.

"Morning." He said. Shane smiled and squeezed his hand. John went to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. He took his coffee to the dining table and pulled out his phone. He checked his email and thought about what he could accomplish today. 

It was Saturday. John had nothing on. If Shane wanted to work on his book, John would go home and do his own thing. He'd go running then maybe to the shooting range and the Tesco. If Shane wasn't working on his book, John would stay. They might go to the gym together and then get brunch. They might stay in and fuck again.

John had been seeing Shane for four months now. They were still in the 'honeymoon' phase where they shagged all the time and smiled at each other a lot. John didn't know how long it would last, but he was enjoying the relationship a lot. Nothing would ever rival the thrill of living and working with Sherlock, but NOT being kidnapped and threatened with death for a while was seriously OK with John. He was ready for a quieter life.

Not that he would characterize Shane as 'quiet.' Certainly not during sex anyway. John smirked to himself thinking about last night. He had introduced Molly Hooper to one of Shane's single friends at a dinner party and they seemed to hit it off. She liked Shane too – but then who wouldn't? He was interesting, articulate, witty, well-read, fluent in three languages AND laid-back, comfortable, an all-around regular bloke.

"It's weird to see you with someone other than Sherlock." She'd said to him quietly. Molly was one of the few people with whom he would talk about Sherlock. She had loved him too, after all. 

"Sherlock wasn't my boyfriend." John said. 

"No." She agreed. "Shane is good for you. You're doing better, I can tell."

John shrugged. "I like him."

He had gone home with Shane and the two mild-mannered, regular blokes had left a trail of clothes to the bedroom where John had bent Shane over the bed and fucked him just the way Shane liked it. 

Finished with his email, John took a look at the news. He was scrolling through when he saw it – a headline pretty far down in the feed, it read "Genius' Suicide a Hoax? Sherlock Holmes has been spotted at a posh rehab center in Scotland."

And John was transported back to that moment when Sherlock had said 'Goodbye, John' and hung up the phone. He had jumped. Sherlock had JUMPED! John still couldn't understand it, he wouldn't have believed it himself if he hadn't seen it. If he hadn't touched Sherlock's still warm body with his own hand and felt that there was no pulse. It was the worst fucking day of John's life. Worse than when he was shot. Worse than when he was 25 and his fiancé had dumped him. Sherlock's suicide was the worst thing that had ever happened to John. 

"John? John!" It was Shane. He was standing over John looking worried.

"Yeah?" John shook himself. "Sorry, what?"

"Looked like you've seen a ghost. I thought you were going to pass out for a second there."

"No. No, I'm fine." John said distracted. He looked at his phone. The story was still there.

Shane pulled out the chair next to John's and sat, his hand still on John's shoulder. "What is it?" He asked, his concern evident.

John sighed and showed him the story on his phone. "I haven't read it yet. It just... I don't know how they can print this crap." John was getting angry now.

Shane took the phone. "Sherlock Holmes? The detective?"

John nodded. Shane connected the dots. "Your friend who died – was Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah."

"Shit, John... you never said."

John made a small, helpless gesture. "People always want to tell me what they think – he was a fake, they always believed in him, whatever. It's hard enough to talk about it without all that...." John felt the familiar prick of tears and for a second he felt humiliated, but then Shane's arms were around him and his tears were OK. "Oh John... sweet, John. You loved him, of course you're upset." Shane soothed.

"I know." John collected himself and sat back. "I know. You won't mind if I head out?" He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly very tired. "I think I need some time to... to read the bloody article and... you know..."

"Yeah, sure."

John examined his face and saw that he DID understand. He went and had a bit of a wash and got dressed in last night's clothes. When he came back out to the main room, Shane was at his desk working. John went over and kissed him. 

"You're reading the blog." He knew it was inevitable.

"I understand what Mike was talking about now."

John scoffed. "Just... be kind. I'm not much of a writer."

"Call me later, yeah?" Shane said, holding his hand. "Or text. Let me know you're doing ok."

"I will." John kissed him again. 

He walked home. It was a long way, took him almost two hours. When he got there, Mrs. Hudson was waiting. 

"I'll make tea." She said. 

John nodded. When Sherlock had died and then a few months later when he was posthumously exonerated, the papers had nothing but stories about the 'tragedy' and John couldn't stop himself from reading them. Mrs. Hudson would come and make tea and they'd sit together quietly for a while. A little oasis of sanity in a sea of madness. 

"I don't know why they have to keep bringing this all back up." Mrs. Hudson said. The article had recapped Sherlock's career – his most famous cases, John's blog and the whole 'imposter' hoax that had driven the brilliant detective to suicide – and his eventual exoneration – before getting to the alleged sighting.

As John well knew, there were people who believed that Sherlock had faked his death. They wrote into the blog regularly – he had had to turn the comments off, they inspired so much fury and then, inevitably, a deeper sink into depression. Sherlock was dead. John had seen him jump, he'd seen his corpse. He'd touched his corpse. Sherlock was dead. This article would inspire a whole new round of conspiracy theories.

A wealthy drug addict had been to a posh rehab facility in Scotland. She claimed to have seen Sherlock several times. "The staff kept him hidden most of the time." She was quoted as saying. "He had a private room and he took all his meals there. But I saw him in the passage when he went to counseling. And once I saw him walking in the garden. I said, 'hello' and he said 'No, shut-up. I don't have time for idiots right now.' and walked away. He was quite rude, just like in the blog."

That's what made John feel the worst – it sounded just like something Sherlock would say and she knew that because John had told her in his blog. He wondered how much the paper had paid her.

After Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs, John broke out the whisky. He sat in his chair and got drunk. 

HOW had he not seen how troubled Sherlock was? How had he not seen the suicide coming?

John texted Shane the next morning. Late – he was hungover and had slept in as long as he could. 

*hey* He'd texted. *Are you working?*

**I'm still reading my boyfriend's blog** Shane replied. 

*Your boyfriend? Have I met him?*

**Nob!**

*I didn't know we'd made it official*

**We haven't? Let's.**

They met for a late lunch near John's flat, then went to 221b together. Shane had been there before, many times of course, but John saw him looking at the flat differently now. "He kept his chemistry equipment in the kitchen, ran experiments on that table right there. He had a skull on the mantle and his microscope over by the hall. I put his chair away, I couldn't stand to see it empty, but the rest of the furniture is pretty much as it was. I took over his bedroom, but it's not his bed."

"I'm sorry, John. It's hard not to be a fan." Shane shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm reminding you of him too, now. Let's just be us." He put his arms around John and kissed his head. "Cinema? Or a blow job?"

John laughed and shoved him away. "Cock." He said.

"My favorite." He kissed John. 

John enjoyed the kiss, Shane was a good lover, very giving, but not afraid to take control either. Sherlock would probably have been a selfish lover, John reflected. He was selfish in almost every other way...

\---

 

The blonde man read the article through again. He opened his Google app and searched for the rehab facility. Then he opened another app and made a reservation for the first train to Edinburgh the next morning....


	6. Letters to John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to find the right words to tell John everything.

The therapist had Sherlock write a letter to John, telling him all the things he never had, all the things he felt. She stressed that this was an exercise, the letter would never be mailed. It was just a way for Sherlock to order his thoughts, work out what he wanted to say to John.

After a fair degree of eye-rolling, Sherlock complied.

 

Dear John,  
I love you. It's not rational, but John, I love you. I couldn't let Moriarty know what you meant to me – he would have killed you and I couldn't allow that. 

I am miserable without you. I don't know how this happened, but I cannot stand this burden of sentiment. I thought if I stayed away, I could forget you and go back to the work. The work is what's important!

But I can't forget you, John. You occupy my thoughts day and night. You have settled in me like a malaise for which there is no cure. Nothing matters when I'm away from you – there's no point staying away, I'm more distracted now than I was when we were together. I'm coming home. 

You know I'm not good with these sorts of things – love and everything that goes with it. But it appears I have no choice in the matter. I love you. I said that already. Sorry. You are wonderful and amazing and I can't function without you. If you want sex, I can give that to you – I've been studying videos online and I feel confident I can perform adequately. 

Sherlock 

 

The therapist had a bemused look when she finished reading the letter. 

"I want you to write another, start with why you faked your death and didn't tell him."

"Oh." Sherlock looked puzzled. "Does that matter?"

"Yes, Sherlock. John will have been very upset by your death. He's going to feel betrayed. He might hate you for it."

"Why?"

She sighed. "He loved you and you left him – as miserable as you have chosen to be, he's been even more miserable, but you decided that for him. Sherlock, you owe him an apology. Work on that."

 

John,  
I'm not dead. You probably want an explanation – I DO have one. Moriarty, his plan was for me to commit suicide, I had to pretend to go along or he would kill you (and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade). I've used the time away to dismantle his network so that you, all of you, will be safe.

I have been miserable without you, John. I thought time and distance would free me from this sentiment, but it has not. I love you as much now as ever. 

I don't know how to be with you, John. I don't know how to be your lover. I have no practical experience and I think we can safely determine that I have no natural aptitude for it. So I have stayed away. 

But my limitations have not stopped me from dreaming of you, dreaming of being with you. Something as simple as walking down the street next to you fills me with such joy. To be with you carnally – I've barely even dared to dream. The power of those feelings is shocking. I understand now why people kill for love – I would not hesitate to kill if you were threatened. 

I never expected to have feelings like these – I never have had them for anyone else. There's only you. Please don't take it personally when I tell you that I find them exceedingly inconvenient. 

Yours always,  
Sherlock 

 

"This is an improvement, Sherlock." She said, hiding her smile. 

"Is it? Why are you laughing at me then?"

"I'm not. I am enjoying the way you express yourself."

"But you don't think it's right."

"I think it's incomplete. In the next letter, I want you to focus on an apology – it's not enough to explain why you let him think you dead, you must be able to sincerely apologize for it."

"Fine."

 

John,  
I am not dead. It feels ridiculous to apologize for being alive, but I am informed by someone I've found to be reliable that waiting so long to tell you this isn't, for lack of a better word, good.

John, I love you more than anyone or anything in this world. If it had not been necessary to save your life – and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – I would not have put you through one second of pain. Your reaction had to be authentic for the ruse to succeed. You were the key.

In addition to fooling Moriarty into thinking that I killed myself, I could not let him know how much I felt for you – he would have killed you regardless of what I did. That is true, but it was also my excuse to avoid the deeper relationship we touched on that one night. I can remember the hurt on your face with perfect clarity – it haunts me, I never want to cause you pain. But I find that that is all I have given you.

As I reflect on how long I have kept this from you, the more selfish I realize I have been. Loving you was not something that I ever expected. I have struggled to come to terms with these feelings and what they mean for me. They are not comfortable feelings – they are distressing – they descended unbidden, unwelcome, and they have made me terribly unhappy.

I have stayed away in the hope that distance and time would take these inconvenient feelings from me, free me to be the person I was. But the longer I am away from you, the worse I feel. I have sunk into misery and degradation so great it paralyzed me. I was too selfish to think that my actions might have made you unhappy too.

For this, my dearest John, I am sincerely sorry.

Sherlock

 

She read this letter several times and then nodded. “Better.” She said. “This time I want you to tell him WHY you love him. What made you fall for him? Explain that."

 

John,  
I remember the moment I realized that I was in love with you. It was at the swimming pool when you stepped out – I didn’t know yet that you had been taken by Moriarty and forced to do this. For that moment, I thought that somehow YOU were Moriarty. 

I remember thinking: How can John be my greatest enemy? I LOVE him! 

Then I saw you blinking S.O.S., and you opened the coat so I could see the semtex. The world righted itself and I knew I would do ANYTHING to defeat the monster that had done that to you. 

How do I account for falling for you? From the very start, I felt that you could really see ME. I liked your compliments on my deductions, but not because they puffed me up, but because it meant that you understood what I was doing and appreciated it. You weren’t offended by my lapses into rudeness – you knew what I meant. You helped ease the way through society, and talking with you so often helped me make intuitive connections I wasn’t able to make on my own. 

You hold me to a higher standard – because I know that you see me for what I am, I have to believe I am capable of meeting that standard. I strive to do so.

But that’s all about me. You, John, YOU are wonderful. You pretend to be average, but you are not. It’s just camouflage. You are fiery and fun and very, very capable. Whether you are treating a patient or shooting your gun, your aim is true. You get it right. 

I don't know why you are different from the other people I have cared about. You simply are. I was never tempted sexually by The Woman, but watching YOU make tea fills me with desire. It's not rational, how much I want make you smile, see you happy. It's not rational how much I desire to touch you, to feel your skin under my fingers...

I don’t expect to ever HAVE you – I never expected it before we kissed, and I have even fewer reasons to have expectations now. I have wronged you. If it matters, I regret it greatly. I regret that I wasn’t strong or smart enough to face my fears, to tell you how afraid I was of how I felt, to tell you how afraid I was that Moriarty would kill you simply to hurt me.   
   
I am so very sorry to have caused you pain. My greatest wish is to see you happy. If you are happy I will be content.  
   
Yours,  
Sherlock  


 

“That’s beautiful, Sherlock.”

“Is it? I was afraid it wasn’t good. Or was… insulting.”

“No, it’s a beautiful love letter.”

“What should I write next?” 

“Write the letter that you will give to John – part explanation, part apology, part love letter.”

“Oh…” Sherlock’s insides jittered with anxiety.


	7. Back From The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to London and to John.

Sherlock watched John walk away down Baker Street. He followed discretely - he was disguised, and John had rarely noticed when Sherlock trailed him in the past, but he wasn't going to take any chances now when the stakes were so much higher.   
   
John walked for almost half an hour. Just watching the familiar way he moved – a little awkwardly but sure footed and bold – made Sherlock's stomach flutter. He hadn't thought he could love John more, but he did. John was perfect.  
   
He had the letter in his vest pocket. Sherlock had slaved over it until it was just right – the therapist liked it anyway. He would deliver it when he was certain that only John would get it.   
   
God! It felt wonderful to be back in London! Sherlock was glad John had gone for a walk, he was enjoying HIS city again. In his depression, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed London.  
   
John turned into a narrow lane and Sherlock had to drop back. When he emerged, he looked around trying to find where John had gone. He saw two things simultaneously...  
   
He saw John dashing across a wide street into a park where a man with dark, floppy hair had a hand raised in greeting. John ran up to the man and they kissed. It wasn't a passionate kiss, but it wasn't just a cheek kiss you might give your friend from the continent either - it was the kiss people who are intimate give to say hello – full on the mouth, but brief. Then John and this person smiled at each other and walked into the park together.   
   
The body language was unmistakable. John was in a relationship. John 'I'm-not-gay' Watson already had a boyfriend. That realization punched Sherlock hard, taking his breath away. He leaned back against a building to gather himself, to try to breathe and to clear the sudden blurring from his eyes. Maybe throw up – he felt sick enough...  
   
Then Sherlock saw the second thing: someone else was trailing John too.   
   
The 'John-is-in-danger' alert sounded in Sherlock's brain and all other considerations disappeared. He could deal with John's relationship later – right now he WOULD discover who and what this person was.  
   
A few possibilities, Sherlock rejected immediately. This man wasn't private security, nor was he one of Mycroft's spooks. This WASN'T someone tasked with helping John.   
   
He could be tailing John's boyfriend Sherlock couldn't rule that out. In fact, he rather LIKED that scenario. Rest assured, Sherlock would investigate this 'boyfriend' thoroughly.   
   
Sherlock had deduced the boyfriend's harmlessness immediately – the man had John's best interests at heart, goddamn him. That DIDN'T mean he was GOOD for John....  
   
He forced his mind back to the matter at hand – the man following John.   
   
The man was medium height with an athletic build – he moved like a tiger, a creature so powerful he need fear nothing in the jungle. A hunter.  
   
The hunter wore handmade wingtips – expensive! – a blue suit and a bespoke dark green overcoat. A clothes horse. He had a full head of blonde hair in a military style cut, he was handsome in a cruel way, his mouth twisted in fury. Sherlock watched a group of children scatter and hide at his approach. Sherlock didn't blame them.  
   
He followed the man following John through the park.  
   
John and his companion went into a restaurant. Sherlock could see them being seated as he walked past. He continued to follow the hunter. He prowled the neighborhood then settled into a café with a view of the restaurant. Sherlock secreted himself in a doorway and watched the watcher.   
   
He couldn’t see John from his vantage point – which was probably a good thing. Watching John having an intimate conversation with his lover over a leisurely meal was not top of Sherlock’s agenda. He ground his teeth at the thought. Definitely good he couldn’t see them.   
   
The hunter in the dark green coat sipped coffee and watched the restaurant. Sherlock was happy he’d found this doorway – it hid him from the hunter sufficiently. The man was examining every passerby. If anyone walked past twice, they had his laser focus. Sherlock would have to be careful with this one.  
   
WHY was he following John?  
   
It was over an hour before John and his boyfriend emerged from the restaurant. Sherlock watched the hunter casually leave the café and start after them. Sherlock trailed the hunter.   
   
John and friend led them back to Baker Street.   
   
Sherlock knew well all the best places from which to watch 221b – there was the flat opposite, their front windows looked into 221b’s front windows. The roof of that building also looked into their windows, but at a sharp angle. And the roof wasn’t flat, perching up there was a short-term endeavor only.  
   
The building across the alley was a shop. It DID have a flat roof, but the view was limited to the back door over the bins and a slice of the ceiling of John’s bedroom on the third floor.   
   
There was also a bench down the street, Speedy’s, and a number of sets of stairs down to the garden levels of neighboring apartments.  
   
Sherlock watched the hunter in the dark green overcoat station himself down the stairs to the basement of the building opposite. He became invisible.   
   
Sherlock ducked into an alley and removed his false beard and shed his long dark coat. Underneath he wore black workman’s trousers and a heavy fisherman’s sweater, both disguised his thinness. He donned a ginger wig and a dark blue watch cap and put the coat and whiskers into a backpack pinned inside the coat. He wished he had a change of shoes. As generic as his black work shoes were, they could betray him to a watchful observer. He spent a minute scuffing them up on the pavement. He finished the disguise with ginger mustaches.  
   
Satisfied with his transformation, Sherlock walked down Baker Street and went into Speedy's. He ordered tea and a sandwich at the counter and then sat in a window with the paper. 

For fifteen minutes, there was no sign of the hunter in the dark green coat. Then Sherlock caught a flicker of movement in the stairwell opposite – he was there, watching.   
   
What was Sherlock's next move? Follow the hunter – he had to find out more about him. But Sherlock ached to talk to John, he was SO CLOSE. He tried to put out of his mind what he and that boyfriend might be doing together. Sherlock had started this day so bright and optimistic – now his stomach was a knot of dread and he was having trouble keeping his sentiments in check.  
   
Oh, John!  
   
Sherlock knew he didn't deserve a second chance, but he had let himself believe that John would give him one anyway. He had to adjust his expectations before talking with John. And he needed to rewrite the letter.   
   
The bell over the doorway rang and Sherlock looked up. John stood in the doorway! Sherlock froze in place, no thought in his head other than JOHN! He didn't think to bow his head or look away. John made eye contact fleetingly as he entered, making a cursory sweep of the room. Then John did a double take, turning back to Sherlock, staring. The door closed but he had stopped moving. The moment stretched – it felt like an eternity, looking into John's eyes, seeing his recognition, his pain ... his fury...  
   
Sherlock remembered the hunter, remembered himself – as John stared in disbelief, unsteady on his feet, Sherlock stood and put an arm around his shoulders.   
   
"You're being followed." Sherlock whispered in his ear. "Don't let on that you know – this man is dangerous."  
   
But even before he began to speak, John was struggling away from his touch. And then they were just struggling, John's strong hands closing around his throat, strangling him... black spots swam in Sherlock's vision. 'This is ok.' He thought and stopped fighting back. 'John has every right to be angry with me...there are worse ways to die...'  
   
But John was pulled off of him. Along with the gulp of air into his lungs came regret – regret that he had stayed away, regret that he had left and lied to John in the first place, regret that he was still alive in a world in which he could never have John.  
   
The hunter – Sherlock needed to focus. He pulled himself back into his chair. "It's ok." He croaked to his rescuers. "Let him go." He kicked the other chair at his table out a foot in invitation.  
   
John was still bright red, still breathing heavily, but after a moment he sat. "Why!?" He said.   
   
Sherlock leaned closer, looking out the window to see if the hunter had noticed the ruckus – he must have. "Moriarty would have killed you – and others – if they didn't think I'd jumped."  
   
"Why didn't you tell me!?"  
   
"You had to believe so THEY would believe it..."  
   
"That is such crap!"  
   
Sherlock bit his tongue rather than contradict him. Instead, he surreptitiously pulled the letter out of his backpack. "This is for you." Sherlock said. "I've tried to explain..."  
   
"I don't want it!" John said through clenched teeth.   
   
Sherlock set the letter carefully on the table. "It's yours, you can do with it what you will." He sat still, looking at John, willing him to speak, or shout, or hit him, or DO SOMETHING. Anything. But John was silent, his eyes shadowed. 

Sherlock reached for John's hand. "John..." He said softly.

John glowered. "Don't touch me." He whispered.

Sherlock stood up. "You ARE being followed, John." He said. "Be careful."   
   
Sherlock left Speedy's and walked away. The hunter didn't follow him - neither did John. Once out of sight, Sherlock shed the ginger wig and mustaches, he turned the hat inside out, it was black now. He put the dark beard back on with the black watch cap pulled low. The big coat, inside out, looked like a gray plaid raincoat - though it was hotter. He took the fisherman's sweater off and stuffed it in the rucksack. He put it on backwards, over his chest and belly and buttoned the coat over it - it made him look fatter. He stationed himself where he could see the hunter's hide and waited.   
   
He endeavored to empty his mind of all the tumult the meeting with John had caused him. He tried to focus only on the man watching John. 

The boyfriend left roughly two hours later, but it was after dark before the hunter made a move – he must think John was in for the evening and Sherlock agreed with that assessment. He followed the hunter down Baker Street, away from John.  
   
   
\----  
   
   
John stared at the envelope on the table. The entire world was upside down. 'Fuck you, Sherlock!’ He raged internally. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you for doing this to me!' He was an utter fool for mourning that bastard! Nothing but a fool, sitting around moping while Sherlock was alive and well doing god knows what!  
   
He looked at the envelope again.   
   
The contents would probably say what Sherlock had been doing. Did he even care!? Jesus! He felt like such a bloody fool!!  
   
Tears. Goddammit! John refused to cry – not over that... that utter cock! The fury inside him kept cresting, but when it receded a little he recognized joy, relief... sorrow... only to be subsumed in fury again and again. 

"John?"  
   
John looked up, ready to murder Sherlock this time.   
   
It was Shane. His hand, halfway to John's shoulder, froze in place when he saw John's expression.  
   
"Shane, thank god." John said and buried his face in his hands.  
   
Shane did touch him now, comfortingly. He sat (in Sherlock's chair). "John? John, are you all right?"  
   
"Take me home." He managed. "I can't be here anymore."  
   
"Ok." Shane stood and helped John to his feet. It felt like he was covered in tar, sticking to the chair, to the floor... "This is yours?"   
   
Shane held up the letter – it had John's name written on it in Sherlock's elegant hand. "Yeah. Could you bring it?" John couldn't touch it, not yet.  
   
"Are you ok, John?!"  
   
"Home." John found his strength and opened the door. Someone was watching him. He forced himself not to look around, not to search for the man. He walked the ten steps from Speedy's to his front door and went in.  
   
As soon as the door shut. John crumpled. He sat on the floor in the hall – right where he and Sherlock had stood and laughed together that first night – his head in his hands.  
   
Shane sat carefully down beside him. "John?" He asked softly.  
   
John's misery overflowed and he couldn't hold it in any longer. His body was wracked with sobs. Shane held him – John let Shane pull him close and tried to take comfort from the familiar touch.   
   
Shane pet his hair and made soothing noises. John could feel his confusion, but it was a while before he could speak. 

"I am such an idiot." John muttered. 

"What happened, John?"

"Sherlock! What else?!"

"Sherlock?"

"He was there, in Speedy's – he's alive!" 

“He’s alive! John, that’s what you wanted – that’s good news.”  
   
“Is it? I don’t even know.” John made a furious gesture. "I saw him jump, I saw his body on the pavement – I touched him, there was no pulse! I'm a DOCTOR for chrissakes, he was dead!" He hung his head again. "I'm a bloody fool."  
   
"You're not a fool, John. There must be some explanation – I can't believe he'd do that."

"Oh, you don't know him! I'm sure he hasn't lost any sleep over it. Probably wants to move back in like nothing happened. Like the last two years never happened!"

"What's this?" Shane held up the envelope.

John cringed from it. "He left it on the table."

"It's for you."

"Yes."

"Are you going to open it?"

"I don't know. Not yet."

"Ok." Shane set it aside. 

"There's something else – Sherlock said we were being followed. He thinks the man is dangerous."

"Followed? Do you believe him?"

"Oh, yes. He was clearly worried. We need to be careful – but don't let on that we know. Don't look around or act suspicious."

"How does he know?"

John scoffed bitterly. "Because HE was following me too. Who knows for how long. He used to do that sometimes before – he had to know everything I did."

"That's...creepy."

"Yeah. That's Sherlock. Boundaries aren't his strong suit."

"Are you going to tell him about us?"

"He knows."

"He said so?"

"He didn't have to I could see it in his face." John scoffed. "Of course he knows! One look at us together and he'd know." John sighed. "When you meet him – ignore everything he says. He was always a twat to my girlfriends."

"You're going to see him again." It was a statement.

"I tried to kill him this time – it's probably not a good idea to see him again.... listen, fuck him! FUCK HIM! I've wasted enough time on Sherlock Holmes. I'm done."

 

 

\---

 

   
John lay awake in the dark. After the talk in the hallway they'd made love – Shane had seemed happy to be able to comfort him that way and John had been grateful for both the distraction and for the sense of calm he felt after his climax. Lying in bed afterwards, spooning with Shane, John fell asleep.

When he woke, Shane was dressing. 

"I'm guessing you need some time alone." He said.

"Yeah. Is that OK?"

"Of course. Text me later."

"I will." Shane had leaned down and kissed him. John listened to him leave.

Then he started pouring the whisky. But he didn't have the appetite for it – his stomach was churning as fast as his thoughts. He went back to bed and tried to sleep.  
   
He still felt calmer – the jittery, nauseating rage had dissipated – but sleep was elusive. All his questions going round and round through his mind: why? Why!? John didn't even really care how, just WHY!?   
   
Sherlock had said Moriarty – of course Moriarty. John even felt a little proud that Sherlock had outsmarted the villain after all. And if he were really honest, he could see how his own reaction had sold the lie. He could have forgiven that if Sherlock had come to him sooner – right after the funeral at the latest. It had been a hellish nightmare of a week, but John's joy would have been boundless! 

But after almost two years of suffering, John's joy was tempered, entwined with bitterness and recriminations.  
   
He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Sherlock had looked at him when he had grabbed him by the throat and squeezed – John had watched him decide to stop struggling, to give in to John's fury, let it take him...  
   
John got out of bed, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and padded into the kitchen. He put the kettle on. He made tea, letting the ritual calm him. Then he carried his steaming mug into the living room. Shane had left the letter on the mantle. John picked it up. It was a cheap drugstore envelope with a page or two folded, inside. Nothing special.   
   
He curled up on one end of the couch and opened it. There were two pages of a legal pad covered in longhand. John took a sip of his tea, set down the mug and began to read.  
   
   
John,  
As you know by now, I did not die two years ago when I jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. Moriarty had forced my hand and to keep Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you alive and unharmed, he and his people had to believe that I had died. I used you – your reaction, your grief – to convince them that my suicide was real. At the time, there didn’t seem to be another way to ensure your safety – if there was, I still can’t see it. I knew it was wrong of me to use you like that, but I considered the stakes and I went ahead. In the same situation, I would do it again.  
   
That doesn’t explain or excuse not telling you in the many months that came after. And for that I am heartily sorry. My excuse is a poor one – I was too afraid. I love you, John, as I have never loved anyone and that terrified me. I thought that time apart would ‘cure’ me of this sentiment and I could go back to what I was comfortable with; being unattached, alone.  
   
I spent some of the time away dismantling Moriarty’s network – Moriarty died on the roof before I jumped, but his web was wide. It took roughly nine months to track it all down and take it apart. After that I felt free to come home, come back to London – back to life – and there was nothing I wanted more. But I had not, I found, rid myself of my sentimental attachment for you. I ached for you, day and night – and in ways I have never felt for any other person. Sexual ways.   
   
I’m thirty-five years old and I finally hit puberty in all its hormonal agony. I couldn’t bear it and I couldn’t bear for YOU to see it. I wasted a few months on heroin. I’m not proud of it, but there’s nothing better for running away from problems – or perceived problems. Heroin led eventually to rehab where I was finally forced to confront the fact that I love you, John, and I desire you.  
   
Moriarty was my excuse to run from you – that night you kissed me I threw him between us and kept him there. I have no excuse for returning now other than I want to be home in London, and more than anything, I want to see you. I don’t expect that you’ll forgive me easily if at all. Rationally I know you must have moved on by now. But I still love you and I want to try to atone somehow.  
   
John, you are beautiful to me. I love how your hair grows in a swirl from the crown of your head. I love your profile – it is so distinctive I want to trace it with my fingers. I love your strong, square, capable hands. I love how we laugh together so easily. I love your jumpers. I love how you always wear your jumpers even though you are always hot – too hot to wear a proper coat. I love how you are unapologetically grumpy in the morning until you’ve had a cup of tea. I love that anything done WITH you is so much more interesting than if done alone. I love how you look when you’re angry, the blush of red growing from your cheeks to your forehead. I loved how it felt to hold you in my arms. You were heavier than I expected, more substantial, and I think that’s how it should be to hold the person you love. 

I love how you thought I could be a better person than I was, you who knew all my faults. You made me believe that I COULD be better. You made me want to be better.

I want you, John. It's not rational how much I want you. I want to give myself to you. I want to feel your hands on my skin, your mouth on my neck. These are things I think about when I am alone – how it would feel to press the full length of my body against yours. How it would feel to have your hands in my hair. How it would feel to walk down the street holding your hand, to look over at you to find you smiling at me… I won’t lie, I have no experience with loving or being loved – in every sense of that word. But I want you.  
   
That desire frightened me so much that I have stayed away for too long. I now realize that by running away from you, I have almost certainly lost any chance I might have had. But if you are safe and happy in your life, I can learn to bear my regrets and disappointments. They are of my own making, after all. But please know that I am sincerely sorry for the pain that I have caused you. I know I am an idiot for not seeing how my actions would hurt you. I’ve been selfish and stupid.

I would say I have simply been myself – but certainly not my best self. I will have to learn to hold myself to your higher standard.

I wish you only happiness and joy.

Sherlock  
   
   
After the first paragraph, John had wadded the pages into a ball and hurled it angrily across the room. “I bet you WOULD do it again, you bloody, fucking arse!” John muttered through clenched teeth.  
   
But a few seconds later he retrieved the letter and smoothed it out on the coffee table. He read it through.   
   
It wasn’t what he had expected. He hadn’t expected contrition. He hadn’t expected an admission of virginity. He really hadn’t expected Sherlock to wax poetic about his jumpers…   
   
But John believed that Sherlock loved him – he’d known before, but not so viscerally. He hadn’t known that this was all new to him. Who gets their first crush when they’re thirty-five!? That Sherlock had run from it John could understand too.   
   
But making John believe he was dead!? Letting him mourn for all this time!? NO!  
   
John read the letter through again. Then again. The regret came through more clearly, the pain and panic that Sherlock had felt, John could empathize. If only Sherlock HAD come to him! If only he had sent word in those first weeks – John would have only needed ONE WORD…


	8. Four Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns more about the man following John. And he learns more about John's boyfriend.

Sherlock stood in front of 221 Baker Street, the red door looming in front of him.

John had texted at 1:23 a.m.: *Let’s talk*

Sherlock had texted back immediately: **Investigating your shadow – can meet later**

It was 1:52 a.m. before John responded. *when*

**hour or two – where?**

*home*

**I’ll text when I get there**

It was now 3:37 a.m. four days after their meeting in Speedy's. 

That day, Sherlock had trailed John’s hunter – and he was definitely ‘John’s' hunter, he hadn’t budged when the boyfriend left – across London via the Underground to a house in Mayfair. Not the part that was currently fashionable, an older, quieter section of Mayfair. The house was once grand and was still impressive. Sherlock was wary - while buildings of that era were like sieves as far as breaking in was concerned, the hunter with the military haircut and bespoke dark green overcoat didn't strike Sherlock as a man who was careless about security.

Sherlock didn't dare case the house itself – he didn't even want to walk down that block. Instead, he cased the neighborhood, familiarizing himself with the adjacent streets, finding buildings that would give him a view of the old mansion.

Clambering up the pitched roof of the house across the alley, Sherlock stopped suddenly - there was a camera on the peak pointed down at the house. Were all the buildings around the mansion wired? The mansion itself must be a fortress. Sherlock wasn't going to get into that house easily if at all. 

He searched for empty and abandoned buildings on the surrounding streets, he found a furnished home that had been closed up for at least a year, possibly several years, but had enough deterrents that kids and homeless hadn't broken in. Sherlock picked the lock to the side door in seconds and explored the empty house. When he was satisfied that he was alone and secure, he drank half of the bottle of water he'd bought at a kiosk in the Underground (he saved the can of Coke for the morning – hunger was one thing, dehydration another thing entirely) and crawled under the dust cloth on one of the beds for a few hours of sleep.

Not that he expected sleep to come easily. He replayed the meeting with John in his head. All he had had to do was bow his head – look out the window even – instead of sitting there staring, and John wouldn't have recognized him. The meeting wasn't how he'd envisioned it. The therapist had warned him that John would be angry with him, but Sherlock had still thought John would be as happy to see Sherlock as Sherlock was to see him. He'd thought John might be SO happy to see him alive that he would grab hold of Sherlock and hug him tightly – Sherlock had spent quite a bit of time imagining this embrace and what it might lead too...

But the bloody therapist was right. Instead of hugging him, John had tried to strangle him. Sherlock shouldn't be surprised – he knew John's temper well. He'd been an idiot not to expect his anger. He had to face it, he'd lost John. All the love he felt was not enough to overcome what he'd done. They MIGHT be able to have some kind of friendship – they might not – but that was the best Sherlock could hope for now. 

But he could do his best to keep John safe from the hunter. John had to be safe.

Sherlock was up with the dawn, again casing the neighborhood. He catalogued all the cameras pointed at the old mansion. He drew himself a map noting the cameras and the areas he believed they covered. He stayed out of those areas. There were, he believed, two narrow blind spots where he could surveil the house without being seen, but there was no way to get closer. From those areas, he started making a diagram of the security on the house itself.

He'd been working for several hours, examining the front of the structure from under the porch of the house opposite, when the front door opened and the hunter emerged. Today he wore a tartan raincoat with orange in its brown and white pattern over a deep forest suit. He again wore handmade wingtips, the leather of these polished to a bright, creamy orange. 

Sherlock noted the heaviness of the door and how the metal doorjamb had large openings to accommodate multiple locking bars. That door would never be beaten in. The short glimpse of the interior he had as the door swung open convinced Sherlock that the shabbiness of the old home was purposeful - an artful disguise that did not extend inside. It was as expensively done up as it's inhabitant.

As the hunter strode away, Sherlock hesitated – should he tail the hunter? Or should he stay with the house and continue looking for weaknesses?

He pulled out his phone and prepared to text – then hesitated again. John could handle himself, but a warning would help him. John had to be safe. He sent the text. **your shadow returns-garden stair opposite** 

Now John could watch his watcher, perhaps even learn more about his intent. At the very least, he'd be wary.

Sherlock contemplated the mansion a while longer. He decided he needed to consult an expert, someone who specialized in housebreaking. Unfortunately, Sherlock couldn't simply text her. Making contact was a bit more complicated. He shimmied out from under the porch via the narrow blind spot along the side of the house and set out across London in search of certain members of the homeless network.

Magali Dusette wasn't a burglar, she was an artist. Sherlock believed there wasn't a building she couldn't enter given enough time and effort. They had met a number of years ago when she had burgled a house in which a murder took place at or near the same time. The husband was accused of murdering his wife and trying to defraud their insurance company by claiming they had been burgled. The police found no sign of a break in, but they also couldn't find where he had hidden the missing jewelry. Sherlock was able to see how the break in had happened and cleared the husband of the jewelry theft/insurance fraud. He had, of course, killed his wife, Sherlock proved that too.

After that, Sherlock searched Dusette out and had used her expertise on a number of occasions. Contacting her involved sending messages via certain homeless, a process which could take days. He was lucky today, he was invited to meet that same day. He brought her his notes and diagrams and turned the problem of the hunter's house over to her. She'd let him know when she'd cracked the house's security.

The next day, Sherlock resumed following the hunter. He'd spent the night in his own lodgings and was clean, well-dressed and disguised as an older gentleman. He got lucky again – the hunter led him to his tailor. 

Sherlock waited almost two hours for the hunter to leave the establishment, then he went in and made an appointment for himself, creating an opportunity to get a look at the appointment book. Sebastian Moran. The hunter's name was Sebastian Moran.

Google revealed that Sebastian Moran had been a Colonel in the British Army and had served in Afghanistan and Iraq before retiring. There were also several more recent mentions of Moran playing in poker tournaments, quite successfully. And he'd written a book that was now out of print.

Interesting. Had John's path crossed Moran's in Afghanistan? John hadn't replied to his text yesterday, so Sherlock didn't think he'd welcome another. He'd file the question for later.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street to see if Moran were watching John, thinking to pick up following him there. And to see John, if only from a distance. But he found no trace of the hunter there. 221b was dark and quiet – John was out. 

Depressed, Sherlock returned to his lodgings. Instead of staying in one of his bolt holes, he had taken a room in a pensioners' hotel. He liked the neighborhood, it was far from his usual haunts and there were a dozen charity shops where he could acquire new disguises. Years ago he had considered having a bolt hole here, but he hadn't found a suitable place. He'd always kept the area in mind.

He lay down intending to nap, but found himself mapping the route to the heroin dealer he'd subconsciously noticed three days ago...

Sherlock forced himself to stop. It had only been two days – he'd promised himself to give John two weeks before he considered relapsing. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Instead of scoring heroin, Sherlock went to the Lil' Waitrose on the corner and got a ham sandwich, half a dozen doughnuts and more coke. Sugar would be an acceptable substitute for now. Back in his room he ate it all and lay back down. He let his favorite fantasy reunion with John play out in his head – the one where John's joyful embrace led to kissing and then John was pulling Sherlock's clothes off and pushing him face down on the table and putting his prick in Sherlock the way he wanted, the way he'd practiced with cucumbers and astroglide...

Sherlock masturbated to completion and that and the bellyful of carbs finally put him to sleep.

He woke after dark feeling logy and out of sorts. He checked his phone – no message yet from Dusette. Sherlock hadn't expected results so quickly. 

No message from John either. 

This is why he didn't eat when he was on a case, this disgusting, fuddled feeling. He took a short cold shower and a long hot shower (as long as he could with the hotel's limited water heater) and dressed carefully as a foppish, young card shark with a long blonde ponytail and fussy facial hair. Sherlock set out for the first of the card playing venues where Moran had, according to Google, won at poker.

Sherlock worked his way through the card parlor and several similar establishments trying to glean information about Moran. He had little luck, only that 'the Colonel' kept to himself to himself. After that, Sherlock tried one of the illegal, back room games. He had slightly better luck there, learning that Moran was a crack shot and an avid big game hunter.

He slept through the morning of the next day. Sherlock had attracted too much attention the night before and had been followed from the back room game. He'd been obliged to 'disappear' – a maneuver that unfortunately entailed hiding in a bin then climbing a fire escape to an inconveniently isolated rooftop and whiling away several hours in the cold before climbing down and making his way back to the pensioners' hotel.

Sherlock woke with a scratchy throat. There was still no news from Dusette nor any message from John. Not that he deserved one. He felt rather sorry for himself regardless.

He forced himself up and spent the day in the military archives wearing an hideously uncomfortable facial prosthetic that made him appear to have been badly burned. There was very little there about Moran's time in the mid-east, but there was a short account of young Lieutenant Moran in the Falklands. He was employed as a sniper in the battle of Goose Green and cited for bravery in the field – he provided sniper cover for all 35 hours of the battle, killing or wounding 23 Argentine soldiers.

He certainly WAS a crack shot. 

Sherlock then went to the British Library and found Moran's book in the stacks. He'd written it subsequent to leaving the Army. "Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas" was the result of several hunting trips in that area. It was a duller read that Sherlock would have liked, but it provided insight to the man's character. He relished stalking his prey and he was very good at it. He stated in the book 'Once a creature is in my sights, I will bring it down, usually with a single shot.'

Why was he stalking John?

If he'd wanted to kill John, he could have done it quite quickly – and from a distance, he was a sniper. What was the point of stalking him? Sherlock had familiarized himself with John's activities since he had 'died.' There was nothing among the short term jobs at different clinics, the depressed social life, the paltry few new acquaintances that would account for attracting the attention of a person like Sebastian Moran. Maybe they HAD crossed paths in Afghanistan.

After the library it was late. Sherlock again went by Baker Street, cautiously checking to see if Moran were watching the flat. Again, the flat was dark and the street empty. Where was John? With the boyfriend? Sherlock hadn't had a chance to look into HIM yet.

He HAD written down the plate and number of the taxi that the boyfriend had taken from Baker Street. Sherlock found the cab company online and, assuming a flaky demeanor, called saying he'd left his smartphone in the back of one of their cabs. He didn't know the name of the driver, but it was taxi number 56. Could he speak to the driver, maybe a another fare had found his phone? The cabbie's name was Brian Kumaraswami. Sherlock went to the cab company and asked for him. He was driving, but they called him in when Sherlock handed them some twenty pound notes. 

Sherlock paid Kumaraswami to consult his GPS and take him to the same place the boyfriend had gone three days ago. The cabbie pointed out the building he'd gone into. It was a posh block of row houses in Chelsea with a private park across the street, the kind that the people in the houses fronting the park had keys for.

They were all three-flats. The mailbox on the boyfriend's listed 'F.Pope-Greene,' 'S.Nellingsforth,' and 'S.Bruno.' Sherlock walked around the block and down the alley behind the homes. He scaled the fire escape on the house opposite, careful not to disturb the occupants. The first floor flat was dark. The second floor was lit but the rooms Sherlock could see into, the bedroom and the toilet, were empty. He waited. It was a few minutes before an elegant woman entered the rooms and turned out the lights, then left.

Sherlock climbed up to the third floor. The bedroom was dark, but there was a light on elsewhere in the flat that shone through the doorway. Sherlock waited. He attempted to let his mind focus on the real problem – the hunter, Moran – rather than the cold metal under his hands and the strain on his muscles to stay still on the ladder for so long. But it was difficult. Moran was a sniper, how long could he stand on this bloody ladder? Indefinitely, Sherlock guessed. Although he'd want a more comfortable hide for a long-term position. And he would have brought gloves.

Then the light opposite snapped on. And there was John! 

He and the boyfriend were snogging passionately, making their way to the bed. John pulled his shirt off and the boyfriend – S.Bruno, presumably – leaned in to tongue a nipple and tug on the flies of John's jeans. John threw his head back and Sherlock could almost hear his moan as the boyfriend kissed his neck, nipped his jaw... 

Sherlock limbs failed and he almost fell off the ladder. He closed his eyes tightly - he didn't want to see this. He couldn't see this. He climbed down carefully. On the ground he sat down, curled in on himself. He wanted John to be happy, he reminded himself. He hadn't known it would be this hard to lose him. He'd already lost him. Sherlock had lost John when he jumped off that roof. Everything else had been Sherlock fooling himself. Because he was a selfish fool.

Eventually Sherlock stood, avoiding looking up at the third story window, and walked away. But the memory of John being pleasured by another was burned in his brain.

Instead of returning to the Pensioners' Hotel, Sherlock went to one of his bolt holes, an artist's loft in Barking. The long ride on the Underground allowed him to rein in his urge to score heroin immediately and forget what he had just seen in its blissful anesthesia. 

After a while, he convinced himself he felt calmer and Googled 'S. Bruno.' There were only two in London – one was a woman, Sarah, the other Shane. Shane Bruno was a writer. Successful, which explained the nice digs. He wrote the sorts of mystery stories that were sold in airports and drugstores. Sherlock felt disappointed in John. If he had to replace Sherlock, couldn't he do better than a dime-store novelist?

Bruno had a Wikipedia page. There Sherlock learned that he was forty-one years old, unmarried and had sold the option on two of his books to Hollywood. His quote on the subject was a good-natured, "One option per thousand – per ten thousand – actually end up as a movie. I'll believe it when I'm invited to the premiere." 

Sherlock bought all four books from Amazon and had them delivered to the kindle app on his phone.

It was cold in the loft and the power was off. Sherlock lit a candle and drank a bottle of the water he kept there. He lay down on the threadbare futon in his clothes and piled quilts on top of himself. He pulled up the first of Shane Bruno's novels, "The Teddlington Towpath Murders.' It was about the rape and murder of two teenaged girls in 1953. It was a famous case in its time and Bruno's book, Sherlock grudgingly admitted, was extremely well researched and organized. 

In the morning he resisted returning to Kensington to watch John emerge from the posh three-flat with a skip in his step. Instead he went to the Pensioner's Hotel. He bathed and dressed again as the posh, older gentleman and went to keep his appointment with Moran's tailor. There he drew out a young apprentice and got him talking about Colonel Moran. The boy had hunted with his father as a youth and knew his way around a hunting rifle. Moran had told him stories about stalking prey in 'the jungle' – it sounded more like India or somewhere in Southeast Asia rather than Africa. Moran claimed to have followed a wounded tiger down a drainage pipe. He'd trailed it to a dead end offshoot and killed the mad beast as it tried to attack him. The other members of his hunting party had nicknamed him 'Tiger Jack.' He had the tiger's pelt as a rug by the hearth in his bed chamber.

"What a remarkable story." Sherlock said. 

"Oh it is, sir, remarkable – but it ain't a story, it's true."

"How do you know?"

"I could tell by the way he told it, sir. If it were a story, he would have made it more exciting."

"It sounds quite exciting."

"It was... but not as exciting as it could be. If he'd said he'd wounded it in the first place and trapped the tiger instead of just following it, sir. Or if he claimed an injury from the attack. I listen to a lot of stories, sir, I've always been able to tell when someone is telling tales."

Intelligent boy. "What is he like, Colonel Moran? I only know him from the card tables where he's cool and quiet."

"Cool is a good description, sir. But I think he's more than just 'cool.' It's not just a stiff upper lip, he's... I hate to say 'cold,' sir, but I think that's right. He can be gregarious, like when he told me about the tiger, and he's always polite. But that's just on the surface. Underneath he's ice. And he looks at everyone like... like they're potential prey and he's sizing up their vulnerabilities."

"Sounds uncomfortable."

"It can be, sir, quite uncomfortable."

"Did he ever mention any friends?"

"Just one, sir. He had missed an appointment – hadn't called to cancel and Mr. Polidor was very put out – when he returned the Colonel told me that a close friend had been killed."

"He said he'd been killed, not simply that he had died?"

"Oh yes, I remember it, sir. He said his friend had been killed by that detective who committed suicide. You remember that, sir, it was in all the papers."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"That's the one."

"Did he say how?"

"No, sir. Only that Sherlock Holmes had done it. No use going after him for it since he killed himself right after."

Moriarty!

Moran had known Moriarty. Was he part of his criminal organization? Certainly a man with Moran's skills would be valuable. How had Sherlock not found him when he dismantled Moriarty's web of criminals?

Was that why he was interested in John? Because he thought Sherlock had killed Moriarty? If he wanted some sort of revenge, he would have killed John by now, surely. 

Why would he watch John? 

The answer was so clear Sherlock felt idiotic for not having deduced it sooner. Moran was watching John to make certain that Sherlock was really dead! That explained why he didn't trail John every day – after almost two years, he could check in once or twice a week, look for a change in John's demeanor or patterns.

Sherlock was willing to bet that if Moran discovered that he were alive, not only would he take his revenge on Sherlock, but he'd kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too – he'd carry out Moriarty's plan.

Sherlock's phone buzzed – he had a text. He fumbled the phone out of his pocket, but it wasn't from John. Dusette had a plan to break into Moran's home. 

Sherlock texted that he would join her in an hour. 

Dusette had made the empty house that Sherlock had slept in when he first followed Moran home her headquarters. She had a crew of five – two of whom were also part of Sherlock's homeless network. She walked them all through her plan which included the use of a localized EMP(!), frequency jammers and a car jack. Sherlock's role was to trail Moran when he left the mansion again and keep tabs on him. He would warn Dusette when Moran started home.

Sherlock prepared for another long night in the card parlors.

He was lurking at the bar in the third such when he received John's text. *Let's talk* 

Sherlock desperately wanted to leave directly and go to John. But he was obliged to stay and watch Moran until he left. It was an interminable hour and a half before he stood up from the game and cashed out. As he trailed Moran to the Underground. Sherlock texted Dusette her warning. Then Sherlock took a train in the opposite direction.

He texted John. **I'm at the front door**


	9. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is so angry with Sherlock – how can he ever forgive him?

Sherlock was experiencing a strange emotion – he was standing in the living room of 221b Baker Street, his home, and it felt wonderful to be there. Except everything that had been his was gone. His microscope, his skull, his books, his equipment, his files, his clippings taped to the wall, the ashtray he’d pilfered from Buckingham Palace... even his chair was gone.

When he felt like this – this sort of uncertainty – Sherlock acted out. He didn’t know what to do with the shame and defensiveness, the feeling of having been edited out of John’s life. He wanted to stomp around and yell at John, open all the cupboards and throw the crockery on the floor. 

John must have seen his distress. “It was hard enough living here, I couldn’t have all your things around reminding me.” He was standing by the hearth in his pajamas, looking at Sherlock. 

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek – he couldn’t throw a tantrum now. It would erase what little credibility he still had. “I’m sorry, John.” He said instead hanging his head.

“Yeah, well...” John trailed off. He cleared his throat. “I read your letter.”

“I wrote it before I knew ….” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge John’s boyfriend aloud.

“I would have waited for you.” John said. “If you’d just... one word, Sherlock. That’s all I would have needed. One word.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” John looked absolutely miserable. Sherlock supposed he did too. “Listen – I’m happy you’re alive, Sherlock, I am.” 

Sherlock heard the unspoken ‘but’ at the end of that sentence and waited, eyes still downcast. 

“What do you expect from me?” John asked. “Are you planning to move back in here? Do you expect that we’d go back to working together? That we’d BE together?”

Sherlock finally looked up. John’s expression quelled his impulse to be flippant. “I don’t expect anything.” He said. “I had… hopes.”

Sherlock’s quiet tone seemed to catch John off guard. He rubbed his face tiredly. “Sit down.” He said, gesturing to the couch. “Do you want to take that stuff off your face? I feel like I’m talking to Mycroft.”

Sherlock had forgotten he was still wearing his ‘dapper, older gentleman’ disguise. He touched his cheek, felt the latex. “We can’t have that. May I use your toilet?” Sherlock asked formally.

“Of course. Do you want tea? I’ll put the kettle on.”

Sherlock nodded and walked quickly to the bog, hiding his face from John – John’s kindness was much harder to take than his outrage. He removed the hairpiece and pulled the prosthetics off his face carefully, they were thin and easily damaged. He took off the coat and the bloody tie and opened his collar, which immediately made him feel better. He shed the waistcoat as well and washed his face. Sherlock ruffled his hair, the dark curls were smashed and lopsided still, but he looked like himself.

What was he doing here? Why had he come back? Standing there in HIS toilet, John making tea in their kitchen… THIS is what he had hoped for, but under very different circumstances. He desperately wanted to walk out there and put his arms around John, feel him relax in Sherlock’s embrace… that would never happen now. Why had he been so stupid?!

“Sherlock?”

John was in the hall sounding worried. Had Sherlock lost track of time? “Coming.” He answered. He opened the door and there was John with that soft, concerned look on his face, it broke Sherlock’s heart. 

And he could see that John – seeing Sherlock as himself for the first time – was affected too. John exhaled a long, shuddering sigh that looked like it hurt him. 

Without thinking, Sherlock stepped forward and embraced John, seeking only to comfort him. And for long seconds, John WAS comforted – he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and held him tightly.

John smelled amazing – musky and warm – so familiar. He smelled like home. Like sex. Sherlock had never pressed himself against John like this, his body hot beneath his thin pajamas, the strength of his compact form taking Sherlock’s breath away. He felt a stirring in his groin, an awakening – and he felt a similar stirring in John...

But then John started to tense, his body going rigid. Sherlock released him and John turned away quickly, walking back to the kitchen and his mug of tea. Sherlock followed.

“I don’t know what to do.” John said plaintively. “I don’t know what you want.”

“You read the letter – you know what I want.”

“You can’t expect me to…”

“I don’t.” Sherlock interjected. “I don’t expect anything. I want and I hope. But I don’t expect. It’s up to you, John. What do YOU want?”

“That’s not fair, Sherlock. You can’t put this all on me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that!” John snapped. 

They were standing in the kitchen as they had a thousand times before but now it was awkward, the electricity between them a burden. Sherlock thought he should leave and was about to say so… then he saw the plate of biscuits John had set out with the tea, and the spoon he’d placed by Sherlock’s mug for sugar. Sherlock was overcome with grief – what had he done?! How could he have thrown all this away. 

He dropped heavily into a chair, regret bowing his head. “I never should have left! What have I done?!”

It was a moment before John spoke. “You feel badly? You regret it?” John stalked out of the kitchen and paced the living room. “Multiply that by a thousand and you’ll know how I’ve felt for TWO YEARS. And don’t you DARE say you’re sorry again. You have NO IDEA what you’ve done to me!”

“John…”

“No! I don’t care what you want. Or what you ‘hope.’ I don’t care. You don’t get to walk back in here and tell me that you love me! It’s too late! It was too late the second you stepped off that roof. How could you make me think you’d killed yourself!? Do you know how guilty I’ve felt? How I blamed myself! Wondering how I could have missed that you were suicidal!? Thinking I should have done more, I should have known! It was cruel, Sherlock. Needlessly, horribly cruel! How could you do that to ME?!”

Sherlock was on his feet and moving towards John before the thought crystallized in his brain – ‘he still loves me!’ It was clear as day to Sherlock. It was in the tired circles under John’s gray eyes, in the set of his mouth, the restless tension in his muscles. It was in the pajamas – the bottoms were the same ones John had worn the night they kissed; the top an old t-shirt of Sherlock’s he had often worn to sleep. But most of all it was in John’s anger. He CARED! He cared so deeply!

John began to protest, but Sherlock was on him. He had John’s sweet face between his hands and their lips met and they were kissing. It was as Sherlock had dreamed for so long, the hot, wet mouth beneath his, tongues sliding against each other, plunging deep. He felt John’s hands digging into his flesh, bruising him with their demands. Sherlock was hard – he dropped one hand down John’s back to his arse and pushed so Sherlock could rub his erection against John’s belly, feel John’s arousal pressing on his thigh...

Then, with unexpected violence, Sherlock was slammed face first against the door. He barely had time to turn his head before the hard wood slapped his cheek. His arm was twisted up behind him painfully – and he realized John had done to him what Sherlock had seen him do to villains time and again. He felt John’s weight against his back and Sherlock arched, presenting his arse, rubbing it against John. 

John growled and ground his hard cock against Sherlock. Sherlock pushed back and they were grinding together. It felt so good, John’s hands on his body, John holding him firmly, John in charge... Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever been so aroused. He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers with his free hand and pushed them and his pants down over his hips. Only John’s thin pajamas were between them still.

But John wrenched Sherlock’s arm up harder and with his other hand pushed Sherlock’s hips away, against the door. Sherlock moaned in frustration.

“I will break your arm if you don’t quit.” John said. 

“Do it. Do whatever you want to me.” Sherlock said, his face smashed against the door. “But don’t stop.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” It sounded like a threat.

“Yes, you do.”

John released him suddenly. Sherlock sagged against the door, bereft without John’s hands on his body. He turned around – John was still there, very close. His face was pink with effort and arousal and his prick pushed the fabric of his pajamas out obscenely. 

Sherlock took hold of it, stroked it through the cloth. John’s eyes burned with fury, but he didn’t pull away. Sherlock sank to his knees and pressed his face against it – it was huge. He peeled the pajamas down and it bounced. He caught the head in his mouth and tongued it, exploring the salty slit, the under the ridge of the head, over the stretched foreskin. John was holding fistfuls of Sherlock’s hair, holding his head. He pushed in and Sherlock tried to remember everything he’d read and seen – hide the teeth, open the throat, relax… it was harder than the cocksuckers on Tumblr made it look. Sherlock gagged and John pulled back, but Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s arse and tried to take it again. And again. He looked up as he sucked and made eye contact with John – he tried to communicate with his eyes, ‘Don’t stop –never stop.’

And John didn’t. He pushed harder now, rougher, forcing himself against the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock clung to John’s hips, still trying to take more. John pulled back and Sherlock tasted the salty pre-come again. Then he thrust gently back into Sherlock and he was fucking Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock was so hard – he dropped a hand to his own cock and stroked it, letting John control the blow job, enjoying it thoroughly. 

Suddenly John’s movements became more staccato. He cried out and pushed hard into Sherlock’s throat. He pulled back and shot cum across Sherlock’s tongue and Sherlock understood. He tried to swallow it, but John thrust into his throat again. Sherlock stroked himself harder and felt the inevitability of his own climax. At John’s next thrust into his throat, Sherlock moaned and came, cumming into his hand… is orgasm seemed to go on and on, he shuddered and sucked on John’s cock, tonguing the last drops from the head, savouring the bitter taste in his mouth as his limbs became weak and rubbery. His legs refused to support him and he felt himself sliding sideways. John slipped out of his mouth, out of his grasp...

But John didn’t let him go. When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor and John was sitting next to him, holding him tightly against his shoulder. Sherlock nuzzled his neck and John turned his face toward Sherlock and they kissed. John couldn’t seem to get enough of Sherlock’s mouth and lips and tongue...

“I hate you.” John murmured.

“I know.” Sherlock said, his head resting on John’s shoulder, inhaling John’s scent. Joy coursed through him, throbbing and pulsing. He knew he should be wary, be careful to expect nothing and to not to hope for too much. He knew John was still angry with him, rightfully, and John was involved with someone else and it was a difficult situation for everyone and it was all Sherlock’s fault. 

But he was laying in John’s arms with the taste of John’s cum in his mouth, his lips bruised from John’s kisses and he had never felt happier. If Lestrade showed up right then with a serial killer, he would solve it without leaving John’s perfect embrace.

John sighed. “Come to bed.” He said with a hint of resignation. “We can talk again in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded and let John pull him to his feet and lead him into his bedroom – which used to be Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock stripped off quickly then waited for John to gesture an invitation into his bed. He climbed under the duvet awkwardly.

“I haven’t done this before.” Sherlock said softly. “Slept with someone. Tell me if I do something wrong.” He couldn’t parse the look on John’s face, but John pulled him close and kissed him, and Sherlock felt reassured.

“How can you be so sweet?” John asked. “You’re the worst human being I know.” He guided Sherlock into a comfortable position on his side, John pressed against his back with his arm around Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock began to relax, he wanted to stay awake and remember every second he spent in John’s arms, but his eyes kept closing. 

“Sherlock...” John spoke so quietly Sherlock wasn’t certain he didn’t dream it. “This is just tonight – it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock replied. He tried to quell the surging waves of joy, but he couldn’t. This was EVERYTHING. He pulled John’s fingers to his lips and kissed them. “This means nothing.”

He imagined John’s frown, but Sherlock snuggled into his arms and let his eyes close.

 

\----

 

John woke fully aroused and hard from a sex dream – he had been fucking Sherlock in the dream. In reality he was grinding on Sherlock, pressing his cock against Sherlock’s arse, holding himself tightly against his body. 

Sherlock, for his part, was pushing back against John and wiggling in the most delightful way. John wanted to take Sherlock right there and then.

The memory of what had happened with Sherlock last night hit him all at once and surfed the tsunami of lust that coursed through his body. John was aware, distantly, that he hadn’t intended to have sex with Sherlock for a number of very good reasons that seemed incredibly trivial right now. Right now, John WANTED. 

Sherlock reached back and clutched John’s hip, trying to pull him closer. He arched his back and John pushed his piece down, into Sherlock’s crack, skimming against his puckered hole. John pushed Sherlock into his stomach so he could spread his legs, allow John greater access. He climbed on top and rubbed his cock across Sherlock’s hole and perineum, bumping against his balls.

Sherlock moaned and arched. John put a hand on the back of his neck, pushing Sherlock’s face into the bed while he continued to tease Sherlock’s sensitive areas. 

“You want this?” He asked.

“Yes!” Sherlock cried and wriggled under John enticingly. “Please, John! Fuck me!”

John released his neck. “In the drawer.” He said. “There’s lube and condoms.” He sat back on his heels and looked down at the lithe form in front of him. Sherlock’s skin was an alabaster expanse unbroken by so much as a freckle. It was lovely. The twitch of muscle as he reached a long arm to the drawer fascinated John. He caressed the perfect curve of Sherlock’s arse then bent and kissed it, his hand wandering down Sherlock’s velvety thigh.

Sherlock handed back the tube of lubricant – John took it and teased Sherlock’s arsehole with his tongue. Sherlock moaned and grabbed fistfuls of duvet.

“Have you done this before?” John asked, remembering Sherlock was inexperienced.

“Not with another person... but I’ve experimented...”

“Show me.” John said impulsively. He buried his face in the crevice and licked Sherlock’s perineum, blew hot breath across his tightly puckered hole. Sherlock squirmed and groaned in pleasure. “Show me how you do it, get yourself ready for me.” He said, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock’s pale neck, inhale the scent of his tousled black hair. He pressed the lubricant back into Sherlock’s hand. He kissed the small of Sherlock’s back then sat up. “Show me.”

John saw Sherlock’s smile and saw the flush of pink color his cheek. He pushed himself up onto his knees, his face and shoulders still against the bed. He opened the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers. He reached back between his legs and touched himself tentatively, circling his hole with a finger then pressing it into himself. 

John hadn’t thought he could be harder, could become more aroused – he had been wrong. His cock stood tall and firm against his abdomen, fat and weeping precome from the slit. He stroked it lightly as he watched Sherlock penetrate himself first with one finger then two.

It was mesmerizing, John loved the little moans Sherlock made as he worked himself open, the gasp as he bent his fingers to brush against his prostate. God, he WANTED this man! He had wanted him for so long! 

John stroked himself again – the fat mushroom head was free of the foreskin now – he could hardly imagine it violating Sherlock’s delicate, virginity. John had been with virgins before, when he was young, it had not gone well. “I don’t have a beginner cock.” John said doubtfully. “This is bound to be uncomfortable.” 

Sherlock fit another finger into himself, frigging in and out. “Oh John...” He moaned. “Touch me.” He eased a fourth finger in, his big hand making his hole gape.

“Oh God!” John was convinced. “Let me get a condom.” He murmured, moving towards the drawer. 

“No.” Sherlock said, pulling out and sitting up in one motion. “I want YOU.”

“We have to be safe...”

Sherlock’s hands caressed John’s chest. “I was tested in rehab – I’m clean. I’ve never shared needles. I’ve never been with anyone else. I want YOU.”

“You don’t know who I’ve slept with ...”

“It doesn’t matter – you’ve always used condoms.”

“You don’t know...”

“Haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I want YOU.” John could see the unspoken words on Sherlock’s face – if this is all I get, if this is the only time we can be together, give me everything!

“And...” Sherlock continued. “I want to give you something you’ve never had. Something sspecial.”

The thought of fucking raw was irresistible. John had never let himself consider it before – between pregnancy and disease, there was plenty of reason to glove up. But he couldn’t think of a single reason now, not with his cock so incredibly hard and Sherlock’s fingers so recently prying open his beautiful arse.

“Ok.” He said. And grabbed Sherlock against his chest and kissed him. Sherlock’s erection rubbed against his own as their lips and tongues met – and John couldn’t wait one more second. He pushed Sherlock back down onto his back and grabbed the lube. 

“I want to see you.” He said, putting Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders. 

“Yes!” Sherlock agreed.

John applied a generous amount of lube to his cock and lined it up with Sherlock’s arsehole.

“Yes, please, John...” Sherlock moaned. 

John felt his cockhead breach and Oh God it felt AMAZING without a condom. He wanted to shove in and start thrusting immediately.

But Sherlock’s body was tensed – John stilled himself and caressed Sherlock’s chest, fondled his prick. Sherlock relaxed into the stretch and John slowly pushed in farther. Sherlock took it, but John could see the strain. “You’re OK, love.” He said, kissing Sherlock. “Take your time, bear down – it helps. And breathe.”

Sherlock took a deep breathe and John could feel some of the tension leaving his body as he exhaled. He waited until Sherlock nodded and pushed in farther. 

It took a while. John forced himself to be patient and gentle. They would get there and it would be worth it.

And then he was all the way in.

He began to fuck Sherlock, leaning forward, looking into Sherlock’s eyes as he shoved himself up his arse. God, he was so beautiful, dewy with sweat, full lips parted, panting, eyes unfocused with lust. “Harder!” Sherlock demanded. “Fuck my arse harder!” John felt his bollocks slapping against Sherlock with every stroke. Sherlock began cursing elaborately, begging for more, saying absolutely filthy things. John loved it.

He slowed abruptly and stroked deliberately in and out then resumed his faster rhythm, savoring the strangled curse Sherlock flung at him. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s outrageous lips – Sherlock grabbed his face and held him there, kissing him like it was oxygen. John began a slow, hard thrusting and Sherlock’s eyes glazed over, he trembled and his arse contracted around John’s cock. “I don’t know...” Sherlock mumbled. “I don’t know how to do this....” He came on John’s chest and his own with a look of surprise on his beautiful face.John’s heart broke with love.

Then John was slipping over the edge. He shouted his climax and thrust deep inside, the thought of his cum filling Sherlock’s arse made him cum all the harder. He shuddered and jammed himself forward trying to go deeper, to inseminate Sherlock’s heart and soul, his very being with the product of their union.

Finally he collapsed on Sherlock’s chest – slick and sticky with sweat and cum. Sherlock pulled him up into a kiss and John let him take control, push John onto his back and roll on top of him, kissing and kissing and kissing like it might be the last kiss he’d ever get.

Because it might be. 

John had said that this meant nothing. He’d lied to Sherlock – lied to himself. 

But he was still furious, still terribly, horribly hurt by what Sherlock had done to him, seemingly so easily. How could John ever forgive him?

But trying to imagine NEVER kissing Sherlock again, never touching him like this, never waking up beside him again seemed equally impossible. More, never drinking tea with Sherlock again, taking clients, going out together to investigate, sitting together quietly, reading or watching telly... John had missed it all so much. 

Maybe he could have it all back – and so much more – Sherlock was offering it all.

But how could John forgive him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the gratuitous smut.


	10. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Shane.

“Why don’t you shower first.” John suggested. It was time to end this tiny oasis of love and making love in the desert of betrayal and pain that was his relationship with Sherlock. He’d put it off as long as he could.

Sherlock sighed. “Sure.” He said reluctantly and sat up, leaving the comfort of John’s arms. John watched his perfect, alabaster arse as he walked to the door - cum dripped down Sherlock's thigh. John's cum.

He covered his face with his hands, willing away the renewed arousal he felt. John didn’t regret what they’d done, it just made everything more complicated. Too complicated to do it again. But he hated the sorrow he felt watching Sherlock walk away. He hated the sorrow in Sherlock’s eyes as he’d sighed. 

He roused himself, found his pajamas and dressing gown and went into the kitchen to make tea. He heard the shower being turned on. 

John could join Sherlock in the shower, have a few more minutes together. Jesus, he wanted to do just that. He could run his hands over that perfect skin, feel the lean muscle, the heat of his body... It would be so easy. 

He finished making tea and put some bread in the toaster. He sat down and sipped from his mug. John was tired.

John heard the street door open downstairs. Was Mrs. Hudson back from her sister’s already? John glanced at the clock – it was half eleven, not really the right time for her return. Then he heard the tread on the stairs and remembered he’d given Shane a key. 

Fuck. 

Shane had been great the last few days. He hadn’t pried or prodded, just gently suggested that John would feel better if he talked about it. They were laying in Shane’s bed together, post-coitus, when John decided he might be right.

“I just... I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. Things can’t be the way they were, not after this... this betrayal. But all I’ve wanted for two years is to have that back...”

“You should forgive him.”

“Should I? Two years! He just let me suffer!”

“Did he have an explanation? In the letter?”

John sighed. “Yeah.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Yes.”

“Is he at all apologetic? Does he understand how he hurt you?”

“Yes. Yeah. But I’m still so angry with him.”

“Maybe you should sleep with him. A bit of hate-sex is good for the soul.”

“Don’t joke about it.”

“I’m not.” Shane shrugged. “It’s just sex. Maybe it would help you work through this.”

“It wouldn’t be just sex. Not with him.”

“Oh.” Shane caressed John’s cheek idly – a possessive gesture, John thought. “I didn’t realize.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the last thing on my mind.”

And that had ended the conversation. It HAD been the last thing on John’s mind. But just about the first thing he’d done. Fuck.

The toast was ready. John got up and got out a plate and began to butter it. His back was to Shane when he walked into the kitchen.

Shane came up behind John and wrapped his arms around him loosely and kissed his cheek. “How did it go?” He asked. “I was worried when you didn't answer your phone.”

John turned into Shane's embrace. "Sorry - I haven't looked at my phone. I'm not sure where it even is." He wondered if Shane could smell the sex on him, the dried semen on his chest and elsewhere, the sweat and the lubricant... John hadn’t cleaned up afterwards, he and Sherlock had clung to each other too fiercely. He hadn’t wanted to wash Sherlock off his skin.

"That bad?" Shane asked. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." 

Shane frowned. “Who’s in the shower? Is he still here?”

“Yeah, erm, he’s still here. Do you want a cuppa?” John turned back to the teapot as Shane released him.

“Tea? No, John, I don’t want tea.”

“We haven’t finished talking. We...” Better to just tell him. It’s not like John could hide it. “We had sex.”

Shane didn’t answer right away but his mouth tightened just slightly. The shower stopped abruptly and they could hear the sound of the curtain rings sliding across the bar.

“Do you want to meet him?” John asked.

Shane examined John’s face for a long moment. John wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for or if he found it. “Yeah, why not.” He said finally. Shane pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

John strangled the impulse to apologize or explain - this was not the time. But there was an awkwardness between them now. John wanted to go to him, to kiss him, reassure him, but doing that smelling of another man's cum seemed wrong. "I don't know the etiquette here." John said finally. 

He watched conflicting emotions cross Shane's face - he was hurt, that was clear, but there was also humor, self-depreciation and other more complicated feelings. "I'm not going to lie and say I'm happy about this." Shane said. "But it's not fatal. I've never been a stickler for monogamy. I generally prefer that we come to an agreement about it beforehand - but I did tell you to do it." He smiled wryly.

"You were joking." John said. He was relieved by Shane's attitude. And so grateful that he'd broken the tension.

"Not really. I assume you're keeping your distance because you need a wash?"

John felt himself blush, his neck and face hot with embarrassment. "Erm, yeah." He admitted. 

Shane stood up and walked to John. He kissed John's neck sensuously, inhaling deeply. "You smell like a cum-whore." He whispered. I want you to tell me everything you did with him." He kissed John again.

"You want... why?"

"Because you're so decent - I like to hear a decent man talk about the indecent things he's done."

"Shit." John swore, turned on despite himself. He doubted his ability to talk about such things.

"My alpha has needs." Shane purred.

"Alpha?"

"My top. A 'real' man, not a faggot like me."

John frowned. "You're not..." He started.

"I am - and I need a 'real' man to fuck me."

"I told you I'd let you fuck me..."

"No, you don't want it, not really. You want to fuck, have your dick sucked. Nothing to be ashamed of, fags need alphas. I would suck your cock right now, lick him off of you, if he weren't in the next room."

"Jesus!" John felt himself start to harden. "You have to stop."

"For now." Shane said.

"This is ridiculous."

"And...?" Shane prompted, his fingers skimming across John's awakening cock.

"And kind of hot." John admitted. Shane nodded and walked back to his chair smiling.

That was not at all what John had expected. Shane certainly had an interesting way of making lemonade.

"John!" It was Sherlock from the other room.

John saw Shane's jaw tense slightly. 

"John, he's back..." Sherlock strode into the kitchen, but stopped short when he saw Shane. His face went completely blank. 

"Shane, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, I'd like you to meet Shane." The tension in the room was suffocating.

Shane stood up. "I've heard a lot about you." He said.

"Obviously." Sherlock replied, his eyes flicking over the other man. John wondered what Sherlock was seeing, what he was deducing. It couldn't be bad or he would have said so immediately, pressed whatever advantage he could.

"What do you mean, 'he's back?'" John asked.

Sherlock turned his attention to John, dismissing Shane. "Your hunter - the man tailing you."

"You mean the OTHER man stalking John?" Shane asked pointedly.

"Yes." Sherlock bit off tersely. "Moran." He said to John. "Colonel Sebastian Moran. Did you encounter anyone with that name? Possibly in Afghanistan? Or in the Army generally?"

"No, I don’t think so.” John said. “Is that him?”

“Yes."

"What does he want with me?" John asked.

"He was an associate of Moriarty’s, John. A friend. He thinks I killed Moriarty. My theory is that he’s keeping an eye on you to make certain I’m dead.”

“But you aren’t dead.” Shane said.

"Obviously. But no one but you know that. I've been very discreet."

"All right." John said, forestalling another comment from Shane. "What do we do?"

"Nothing." Sherlock said. "Act normally."

"And what are YOU going to do?" Shane asked.

Irritation crossed Sherlock's face. "I'm going to put him in prison where he undoubtedly belongs. In the meantime, we can't let him see me." He glanced between John and Shane. "If you want me to leave now, I can go out the back."

"We haven't finished talking." John said. "But right now I want a bath." He looked at the two men bristling at each other and escaped into the toilet.

 

\----

 

Sherlock watched John leave the room. He wasn't certain if he'd been dismissed or not, but he bloody well wasn't going to let the novelist know that. He got a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a cup of tea. He stirred in sugar and grabbed the toast John had buttered. He sat at the table and began to crunch through the toast, his long legs stretched out across the kitchen floor.

"So." Shane said. "You love him."

"Obvious." Sherlock muttered over his toast.

"Do you expect me just to clear out then?

"Oh, boring."

"Boring?"

"Yes. Jealousy is boring."

Shane laughed briefly. "I have to agree with you there." He said. "But that doesn't solve our problem."

Sherlock looked directly at Shane Bruno again - the first time since his examination when John had introduced them. The irritating ... suitability... was still there. He was extremely successful - obvious from his vintage Rolex (understated, unobtrusive and undoubtedly worth a mint) and the hideously expensive haircut and hair product. The man had good hair and he was vain about it. He'd also had his teeth straightened and bleached, but otherwise he was humble and unassuming. He could afford bespoke clothes but his shirt was Banana Republic, his trousers were Uniqlo and he wore an old pair of brown wingtips - nothing special. He had a posh flat, but he could afford the whole building easily. But he didn't need it. He could afford fancy cars but he didn't want a car at all. His accent was akin to John's, solid suburban middle class, his education wasn't fancy, his grandparents were poor Italian immigrants - Bruno was self-made, no one had given him anything. Even so, he had no need to brag about his accomplishments, he didn't care to broadcast his wealth and success, he just wanted to be a regular guy. 

A regular guy and a GOOD guy. He was kind and caring and he'd been good for John. He'd given John much-needed relief from mourning and depression. He'd made John happy - for which Sherlock was grateful.

God, Sherlock hated him. He wished John hadn't chosen so well. Bruno wouldn't be intimidated by Sherlock's usual antics.

"Our problem?" He asked, thinking of Moriarty and his 'final problem.'

"We both want John. You don't seem like the sort of bloke who likes to share."

"Share John?! Like some sort of joint custody scheme?!" Sherlock sneered. "I get him Tuesdays and Thursdays and every other weekend? Or are you proposing we all move in together?"

"You really are a complete wanker, aren't you? John said you were."

"How much are you worth, Bruno?" Sherlock asked. "100 million? 200 million?"

"Nowhere near that."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "More, then? That's not just the books. It's obviously not family money. Do you gamble? Play the stock market?"

Shane started to reply, but stopped himself. He stared Sherlock down. "John didn't tell you my surname." He said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Did you think I WOULDN'T investigate someone who befriended John?"

"You left him thinking you dead for two years, why would you care WHO John befriended?! Because I might be like the bloke outside - interested in John because of you?! Sorry to disappoint, but I didn't even know he knew you for months. Not until you got sloppy and let someone see you at that poncey rehab clinic. That set him back, you know. He tried to hide it, but he was depressed for weeks after that, you selfish prick." Shane stood abruptly and paced the kitchen floor. "Why am I bothering to tell you - you don't care what you did to him. You're back and it's convenient to have him around again - or convenient to move back into this flat, so you make him believe it's all about him. But it's all about YOU, isn't it. Everything is all about you." 

"Superior intelligence and focus is often mistaken for self-involvement." Sherlock said blithely. 

"What? You're NOT a selfish prick? Is that what you're claiming?"

Sherlock smiled to himself. "No. It's too dull. I can't be bothered."

"John might disagree."

"John often does."

"That doesn't tell you something? When one of the most decent men I've ever met disagrees?"

"I don't require my friends to agree with me."

"Just to do what you say."

"They would be intelligent to do so."

"You're infallible? You never make mistakes?"

"Clearly I make mistakes. YOU wouldn't be standing in my kitchen haranguing me if I didn't."

"So you admit leaving John like that was a mistake."

"Obviously!" Sherlock attempted to rein in his irritation. "But that's between John and me. It has nothing to do with you."

"It does! I care about John, his suffering affects me. I want to protect him from insufferable cocks who hurt him."

"John can take care of himself."

"Normally, I'd agree with you - John is more than capable. But being around you is hazardous - wasn't he kidnapped TWICE by murderous thugs because of you? There's a criminal outside right now watching his flat BECAUSE OF YOU!"

"By that logic, leaving was the best thing I could have done for him."

"Yeah, and coming back is the worst. Why are you here, Sherlock Holmes?!"

"I finished my business elsewhere."

"Business? How does 'business' lead to a rehab clinic?"

Sherlock had been waiting for Bruno to throw that in his face. He stood up and took his mug to the sink. "That's personal." He said.

"But you told John."

"Of course I told John."

"So he knows you're a... what? An alcoholic? A junkie?"

"John knows the worst and he loves me anyway. Even now he loves me."

"He told you that? That he loves you?"

"It's obvious. It's even obvious to you."

Shane paced the kitchen distractedly. "You know you're not good for him." He said.

"Happily, your opinion doesn't matter."

"You should do the right thing - stay away from John for his sake. He'll be safer and happier."

"That would be very convenient for you."

"Yeah, it would. But as you've pointed out, this isn't about me, it's about John. If you really love him, leave him alone." 

Sherlock didn't answer and Shane pushed his advantage. "You know it too. You know he's better off without you. For once in your life do something for someone else!"

"You think I jumped off a building because I'm selfish?! I did it for him. I did it to make him safe. And I've spent the time since making certain he'll stay safe. You think I wanted to leave London? Leave my comfortable life - leave John?! To leave everything I had behind and travel relentlessly, never staying more than a week in one place!? I wasn't on vacation. I wasn't gadding about Paris or lying in the sun in Ibiza. I was tracking down the villains who had threatened John's life. I wanted to come home, but I couldn't until I knew he was safe."

"So you're what? Jesus bloody Christ?" Shane taunted. "What's it like up there on the cross?" Shane walked around the table, invading Sherlock's personal space.

"Shut up." Sherlock stood his ground. 

"Would John have been in ANY danger at all if he didn't know you? Can you really take credit for saving someone YOU put in danger?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"And then there's rehab - where does substance abuse fit into doing everything you can to save John?"

Sherlock laughed. "You really are desperate, Bruno. You know you can't hope to compete with a superior mind..."

Shane grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, his other fist cocked and ready. "Get that 'superior mind' ready for some competition."

Sherlock smiled wolfishly. He was going to enjoy taking Shane Bruno apart...

"Oi!" It was John. "Oi! I can't leave you two alone for ten minutes?!" He was damp from the shower, his shirt still unbuttoned showing the ginger fur on his chest that traveled down around his navel and into his jeans... "Sherlock!" John said. "Don't hurt him. Shane, let go and step back. Now!"

Shane obeyed looking furious that he'd let Sherlock goad him into the physical confrontation. Sherlock dropped the carnivorous grin and looked at John expressionlessly.

John looked back and forth between them. "Sherlock, get out." He said.

"What, now?"

"Yeah - get your shoes and the rest of your kit, you're leaving."

Sherlock shrugged for Shane's benefit and stalked past John into the bedroom. He could hear John talking to Bruno, something along the lines of 'I expected better from you.' Sherlock ignored it. He tied his shoes and found the rest of his clothes. He put on the bloody tie, the waistcoat and the jacket. He wasn't going to put the whole disguise back on, he'd go out the back...

He returned to the kitchen to find John standing there alone with his hands on his hips.

"Did he leave?"

"No. I sent him to Speedy's. He'll be back in five minutes. You need to be gone by then."

"Weren't we going to talk?"

"Yeah, I'll make it simple for you: don't follow me any more. Don't come here, don't call. When you've taken care of whoever that is out there watching me, send me a text - otherwise don't contact me at all. At all. I'll contact you if I have anything to say."

"So this is... goodbye?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock nodded. He'd known this was a possibility all along. He'd been fortunate to have had a few hours with John first. 

"You'll have to lock the back door after me." He said.

"Fine." John held out his arm, ushering Sherlock into the hall. 

Sherlock paused before opening the door. He turned to John and reached out and touched his face. Then he pushed John's back to the wall, pinning John's wrists and shoving his pelvis forward to grind against his groin. John struggled half-heartedly, but didn't resist Sherlock's kiss. 

It was passionate, desperate, consuming - teeth and tongues and tense arousal, their lips mashed together, biting and sucking. Lonely kisses, farewell kisses...

Sherlock wanted to live in that moment forever. But he pulled away. 

"I love you, John. That won't change."

John's eyes burned but he didn't speak.

Sherlock nodded. He opened the back door and walked out into the daylight. He heard the door close and the bolt shoot home as he walked down the stairs and away.

 

\---

 

Sherlock continued to surveil Moran. Dusette had taken photographs inside his house and Sherlock pored over them on his laptop, magnifying sections to try to work out what felt odd - off - about the house. Sherlock suspected there were hidden passageways, possibly even hidden rooms in the old mansion. He wished he had been inside himself and could have touched and prodded the place with his own hands. Perhaps he would arrange an opportunity...

Day after day, he heard nothing from John. He tried to teach himself not to hope for it, to give up his dreams of reconciliation.

But he thought a lot about their short time together as lovers - what it had felt like to be held so tenderly, to have John inside him, to watch John's face through his own lust-born myopia, to feel John's climax through the tension in his body, the way his big cock had, improbably, swelled larger, the heat filling his arse, John's almost pained cry and the shuddering of his chest under Sherlock's fingers...

Sherlock told himself not to want more, to cherish the memory of having been loved, but to accept that that part of his life, so briefly ignited, was finished. But returning to celibacy was more difficult than he could have anticipated. His body yearned to be touched.

As days turned to weeks he began to resent Moran - but for him and the threat he posed to John, Sherlock could find solace in heroin. 

He moved out of the pensioners' hotel and into the artists' garret bolt hole. With the heat and electricity turned on and a real bed, it was quite cozy. His disguise was only paint splattered jeans and t-shirts and a green stocking cap, otherwise he looked like himself, black curls, blue eyes and all. He wore a peacoat with the collar up and a modest jumper that reminded him of John.

He was rude to his neighbors, but several of them let him know they were sexually available regardless. He never used to care about such things - he'd file the information along with everything else. But now he found himself wondering what it would feel like to be with the voluptuous industrial designer on the second floor or the brutish sculptor in the flat below. He found himself trying to work up some enthusiasm for the sculptor and his built arms and muscle bound chest... but he couldn't. He wasn't John.

He farmed out surveillance on Moran to the homeless network. He received reports via text. The Colonel continued to watch John, but made no more threatening move than that. 

Sherlock was looking over the photos again - especially the main fireplace, a decorative affair in the front room, and the moulding in the library - when his phone buzzed. Another update from the team surveilling Moran, he thought. Boring. For a villain, the man was exceedingly dull. 

Then his phone buzzed again. And again.


	11. He Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran makes his move.

It was ringing. Sherlock fumbled the phone from his pocket - it was John! John was calling!

Sherlock's hopes soared - and he realized how very unhappy he'd been. Chances were great that John did NOT want to reconcile, Sherlock shouldn't allow himself to hope. The disappointment would be crushing. But he couldn't help himself. He hoped.

"John?"

"Is he there!?" A voice - not John's - demanded, talking over Sherlock. "Goddammit, is he there?!"

"Who is this?" Sherlock asked.

The voice huffed an impatient sigh. "Is John with you?" He asked more slowly if not more calmly. "I'll leave you alone, I just want to know that he's safe and not ... kidnapped again or whatever."

"Bruno?"

"Yeah. Is he with you?"

"John? No, of course not."

"You're sure? I wouldn't ask, but he's disappeared and that's not like him."

"John's disappeared?! Tell me what happened!"

"He's missing." Shane's voice lost some of its combativeness. He sounded plaintive. "I can't find him anywhere."

"For how long?"

"We were supposed to meet for dinner... oh god, at seven. He never showed up, he didn't answer his phone. I went to his flat, he wasn't there, but I found his phone. Mrs. Hudson said she saw him around ten a.m. when she went up to dust and run the hoover."

Sherlock glanced at his watch - it was 21:28. 

"Did you have any contact with him after ten?"

"No."

"Has anyone else? Did you ask Mike? And... his other friends?" They'd never been important enough for Sherlock to learn their names.

"Yes! They haven't heard from him today."

No one had seen or heard from John for almost twelve hours. "Where was his phone?"

"On the kitchen table - next to his laptop and a half-drunk cup of tea. Is this his stalker? Did he do something to John?!"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Haven't you been watching him?" Shane's panic took on an accusatory edge. "You're supposed to be watching him!" 

"Calm down, Bruno, I have people watching him. They would have contacted me immediately if Moran had approached John - or if he did anything out of the ordinary."

"Maybe they lost him..."

"That would be out of the ordinary. I'll find out what he's done today but he could have hired people to take John."

"This is because of you, isn't it?! He's been kidnapped again because of you!"

"Leave it, Bruno - there will be plenty of time for blame after we get John back."

"Right. Right. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find out exactly what Moran has done today. And then I'm going to his house."

"You know where he lives?! I'm coming with you."

"No. The place is a fortress. And I can't walk up to the front door and knock."

"Why not!"

"If he knows I'm alive, he'll kill John."

"What? Why!"

"That was the deal - either I jumped off that roof to my death or John and several others would be killed. I chose door number three, and spent the time in hiding tracking down everyone who might have carried out Moriarty's decree."

"It appears you missed one."

"Yes, that's been obvious for some time. That's why I've stayed incognito."

"Why didn't you do something?! Why didn't you tell John?"

"John knew." Sherlock said brusquely. "And I've BEEN doing something - I've been attempting to link Moran to Moriarty's network, whilst watching for any hint of criminal activity. He's insulated himself quite effectively, but it's clear he's behind several high profile assassinations."

"Why is he still walking around free?"

"Because I can't prove it, Bruno. The police are maddeningly particular about that. But his M.O. is not kidnapping. He's a sniper, he shoots from afar."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I need to think."

Shane scoffed. "You claim to love him, but you're not going to do anything?! Why did I bother with you?"

"Shut up, Bruno - I need to THINK about what to do, then rest assured, I'll get John back. Now if you'll excuse me..."

"Wait - what can I do? I have to do something."

"But what could you possibly do?"

"I could tell this Moran you're alive!" Shane was angry. "Offer to trade you for John."

"That would be extremely foolish, not only would it get John killed - he dies if I'm not dead, remember - Moran would kill you too. He's unlikely to leave any witnesses. Now, shut up, I need to think."

"You could just hang up."

"I might have more questions. And I want to be sure you aren't doing something that would get John killed. In fact, I'm coming over - you're at 221b? I want to examine the scene. Don't touch anything!" With that, Sherlock hung up.

He called Dusette whilst he assembled the gear he thought he might need, and apprised her of the situation. She agreed to meet him at the Baker Street flat. Then he swung his duffel over his shoulder - it was actually an old one of John's, army issue, that he'd used to bring supplies to the loft years ago - and set out. It likely was not safe to walk up to the front door, so he decided to come in through the back. It was also possible that the flat was bugged or had hidden cameras. Sherlock was still in his paint-stained clothing, he added ginger whiskers and hid his dark hair under the stocking cap. 

Shane swore when Sherlock strode into the living room. "Bloody hell, you couldn't knock?"

Sherlock indicated he should be quiet and turned the telly on loud. "The flat may be bugged." He said through the ginger whiskers. He approached John's laptop carefully, putting a strip of masking tape over the camera before he turned it towards him. 

"Have you looked at what he was doing?" He asked Shane who was lurking on the far side of the kitchen.

"No - John has everything password protected. He said something about living with you got him in the habit."

The passcode screen appeared. Sherlock guessed John's password on the second try. He glanced at Shane. "If he's truly concerned, he should make his passwords more difficult to deduce." He muttered.

John's blog was on the screen, he'd been typing a new entry. Sherlock started to skim the text... then stopped and started over, reading it properly.

 

***  
THE CASE OF THE MISSING DETECTIVE or A CASE OF MISSING THE DETECTIVE

Sherlock. I miss him. Every day when I wake up it hurts. 'The life I could have had' is something I dwell on - the life he SHOULD have had...

But he's dead and gone these two years now. I have another life with another companion and I'm no longer so unhappy. Sherlock's lifestyle isn't one I could have maintained indefinitely. Could I? Could anyone? I still crave the adventure. 

If I could go back, would I? If I could have him alive in all his prickly, infuriating glory, would I? My heart says YES! In an instant. He's mine! My best friend, my closest companion, the man that knows everything about me and loves me - ME! As average and unspectacular as I am, that magnificent creature loves me! I love him too. 

I try to keep it there, not think about having him as my lover. Not think about his lean body rocking beneath me, reacting to my every movement, my every breathe, flushed and perfect, eager for my cock, my cum, my kisses... waking beside him, the morning light making his pale skin glow. My fingers on his arm, his neck, in his hair. My lips pressed against his. The look in his eyes, hungry, sad, grateful for whatever scrap I give him - he should never settle for scraps! He deserves a lover who cherishes him. (Up close I can see the scars. They weren't there before - who has cut you, my love? Who has hurt you, beaten you, left this evidence of pain? How have you struggled on your own?)

I love him. But I hate him too. He's not the only one with new scars - he cut me deeper than I thought anyone could when he died. And deeper still when I discovered he had used me - and my foolish grief - for his own purposes. I don't know how to forgive him for that. I am just a another tool to be used.  
Why would he care how a spanner feels about loosening bolts? It's what the spanner is for. So I fulfilled my function and he put me back in the drawer until he decided he needed a spanner again. Can the spanner BLAME the workman if he hates the drawer? If he misses the workman's grip on his body? If he misses being useful...

What happens now? I haven't seen him since he revealed himself and his deception. Every day I think I'll text or call, reach out, talk to him again. Be with him again. I want to be with him again. But I'm so angry with him. 

The anger has a life of its own. It's a net, a shell that encases me. It's hardened into concrete. I'm trapped in it, unable to move or even breathe. I cannot break out of it - and I'm not even sure I want to. It's safe in here, in my bunker of fury, he can't get to me here. He can't hurt me again. 

Sometimes I read his letter - the one he wrote to explain himself, to apologize. The one in which he calls me 'my dearest John' and declares his romantic love for me (!) - and then admits he's a frightened virgin... I believe every word of it. What he did makes sense in context. It makes me want to hold him tightly - and to fuck him silly. He needs to be fucked thoroughly and often. It would bind him to me, it would soften him, make him invest in his humanity. 

But it's not enough, the letter, to break through the hardened anger. I understand his motivations, I understand his regrets. I UNDERSTAND. But I still can't forgive. Last night I dreamt we were together and it was wonderful... when I woke, I fel  
***

It ended there, John's blog entry. It wasn't posted, obviously John never INTENDED to post anything so personal. He never intended Sherlock to see it. Or anyone.

Sherlock wiped his eyes, frustrated anew by John's inability to forgive Sherlock's trespasses. 

"Have you found something?" Shane asked, fidgeting in the doorway.

"Nothing of import." Sherlock snapped shutting the device, trusting that would reengage the lock screen.

"What are you going to do?" Shane was nervous.

Sherlock looked more closely at John's boyfriend - he should have done immediately, the sheen of sweat on the man's lip spoke volumes. 

"What have you done?!" Sherlock asked him.

"What do you mean?"Shane asked, unable to stop fidgeting.

Sherlock advanced on him. "What have you done? You spoke to Moran." The flash of fear in Shane's eyes told him he was right.

"Tell me! Tell me what you did!"

"He was here when I came looking for John!" Shane burst out. "I didn't tell him anything - he told ME to deliver you to him by tonight or he'd kill John."

Sherlock sagged. He dropped into a kitchen chair. Moran knew he was alive. "Did he say he'd let John go if you 'delivered' me?"

Shane paused, thinking. "It was... implied. He said he'd kill John if I didn't. What could I do?"

Sherlock swore. He'd been so careful, how had Moran found out?

"Where? Where are you supposed to 'deliver' me?"

"He gave me an address in Mayfair."

"Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

"I don't know. I hoped he was lying, he didn't have John."

"What time? What time do I need to be there?" Sherlock asked brusquely, glancing at his watch.

"Midnight."

Sherlock swore again. He had to leave soon if he were to make Mayfair by midnight. "Tell me EXACTLY what he said and did." He demanded, pulling the ginger whiskers off his face. He didn't need them now.

"What I told you - I came in looking for John. A stranger in ridiculously expensive clothes was sitting there in the chair." He indicated John's chair. "Except he wasn't a stranger - I'd seen him before."

Sherlock turned to him. "When?!"

"The night I met John."

"He was there? Tell me."

"Erm... two men tried to stick up a pub - I was there with my cousin. John subdued one of the men. Moran helped my cousin with the other bloke. I remember the green coat. It was so... unusual."

"Did he speak to John?"

"No, I don't think so. He didn't come to the Police Station with the rest of us."

Adrenaline - John had met Shane when he was coasting on an adrenaline high. Unconsciously, he associated Shane with that feeling. He really had supplanted Sherlock.

Sherlock set that aside - along with everything else that wouldn't help him get John back. "Ok - today, what else did he do?"

"He introduced himself. I asked if John were in the bedroom. He laughed and said 'no.' He said he'd taken John. Then he told me I had to bring you to him by midnight or he'd kill John." Shane cleared his throat, nervous under Sherlock's scrutiny. "Of course I said I didn't know what he meant, you had died years ago. He said, 'if that's true, it's unfortunate for John.' Then he just left and I called you."

Sherlock paced uneasily around the room. If Moran hadn't been certain Sherlock still lived before, he was as soon as Shane had called. Nothing for that now. 

Where was Dusette? It shouldn't take her this long to get here. Sherlock went to the window - a bullet punched through the glass and passed a millimeter from his ear. Instinctively he ducked back, even though he knew that if Moran had intended to kill him he would have. The shot was a warning. 

"What was that?" Shane demanded.

"Get down!" Sherlock hissed. "Moran is shooting at us." 

Sherlock couldn't help an internal wince as Bruno dove to shelter behind the sofa arm, trying to master his panic. The man was trying, he was simply... useless. Sherlock recognized that was partially his bias, but not entirely. If Bruno weren't John's partner, Sherlock would barely notice him.

"Why!" Shane cried. "Why is he trying to kill us?"

Sherlock was already texting Dusette, warning her to stay clear of Baker Street after all. "He's a trained sniper - if he wanted to kill us, we'd be dead already."

"Then why?!"

"To let me know he's watching. To let me know he's in control now." Sherlock smiled at Dusette's answer.

"What do we do?"

Sherlock looked over at the man. "We go get John. Come on." Sherlock strode across the room, removing the stocking cap and ruffling his black curls. He ran down the stairs, Shane Bruno a few steps behind him, and flung open the front door. The street was empty. Sherlock stepped out onto the pavement and raised his arms in surrender. 

In seconds a lorry squealed around the corner and sped down Baker Street, coming to an abrupt shrieking halt in front of them. Several men jumped out of the truck and grabbed Sherlock. They hustled him into the back of the lorry. As they were duct taping his hands together, Shane was ushered in as well. 

Sherlock sighed. He'd really hoped that Moran would leave Bruno out of this. Now he'd have to save John AND keep his dull boyfriend alive.


	12. CBT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, kidnapped again.

John was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he was with Sherlock. Not with him the way he used to be, they weren't interviewing clients or investigating a murder. John was with Sherlock the way he WANTED to be with Sherlock, flat on his back in bed while Sherlock rode his cock, his lean and lovely body glowing with lust and a sheen of sweat. John's hands were on his hips, gripping the sharp bones as Sherlock raised himself up and sank down over and over again. He moaned every time John's cock penetrated deeply. "Oh...oh...ohhh!" Sherlock's erection bounced lewdly along with his movements, the slit magenta with arousal, protruding from the foreskin, damp and dripping precome on John's belly. Soon he would cum from the pleasure he was taking from impaling himself on John's big cock, he would shoot his load on John's chest and he would say something delightfully filthy like "Fuck me, John, I love your cock." Or "Cum inside me, John. Give me your seed!" Or "Harder! I need it harder! Pound my arse, John!"

John would be overcome by the sight of this impossible, lustful, gorgeous creature using his body for pleasure and John would climax. He would cum inside Sherlock, feeling it, sticky and warm, running down his bollocks as it leaked from Sherlock's tight arse. His orgasmic spasms would thrust his cock even deeper inside Sherlock and he would shout his pure joy as he shuddered and shot, the waves of pleasure crashing through him... Sherlock would collapse on his chest, spent and sweaty. John would hold him, tightly, tenderly. Sherlock would kiss him lazily and whisper against his cheek, "I love you, my dearest John. I'll never leave you, I'll never hurt you..."

And then John would feel sad, his arms empty and cold. Sherlock had left him. Sherlock had hurt him. John was alone...

John would wake up then - always with a raging erection, but without the will to stroke himself. If he were with Shane, he would have to get out of bed and go to the bog. He needed time alone to reckon with fresh grief.

God, it was cold - where was the duvet? John's mouth tasted foul, it was taking him out of the dream faster than usual. He needed to get up and brush his teeth. And check the heat while he was at it. But he still felt logy. Opening his eyes was too much work.

He wondered if he should break up with Shane. Surely he was doing him a disservice. He wasn't treating him right whilst he struggled with his feelings for Sherlock.

John had been honest with Shane. They'd had a long talk after John had slept with Sherlock and he'd confessed how in love he still was with the detective. With his friend. It hadn't mattered when John thought he was dead, but it mattered now.

"I wouldn't blame you if you walked away." John had said. He was standing in the window looking down on Baker Street, just like he used to when there were clients coming to the door.

"Is that what you want, John?" Shane had asked quietly. He was sitting in John's chair, his legs and arms pulled in defensively. "For me to step aside? You can be with him now."

"But I can't - how could I?" John paced distractedly, his anger surging again. "After what he's done? I can't trust him. I can't rely on him. I can't be with him."

"John, you were with him two hours ago."

John shook his head. "I didn't intend that. He just.... wouldn't stop. Everything always has to be his way."

"Wouldn't stop what?"

"Coming on to me. He's never done that before - I guess he learned a few things when he was away." John scrubbed his face with his hand - he was suddenly exhausted, he had slept little since discovering Sherlock in Speedy's. "I wanted to stop him, I tried. Pushing him away, forcing him to stop - it was so physical. I even threatened to break his arm, he didn't care - I was touching him, that's all that mattered. Whatever I did just escalated everything."

"Diabolical."

John scoffed. "No. He had almost no idea what he was doing. He was a virgin, you know."

"What?!"

"Yeah." John turned back to the window. "That was the problem before. He'd rejected everything sexual for so long... it was... threatening. It's part of the reason he left."

John felt Shane's hands on his shoulders. He relaxed back into the man's embrace. "You didn't answer, John - do you want me to step aside? I don't want to lose you, but if there's no point..."

"I don't want to lose you either." John said passionately. He loved the feeling of Shane's strong arms around him, the way his head fit against the taller man's neck. It was so comforting. "I just don't know why you'd WANT to stick around. As much as I don't want to, I love him."

Shane was quiet for a moment, his face pressed into John's hair. "John, I don't think I can be part of some arrangement where you sleep with both of us. That generally doesn't bother me, but this is different."

"I'm not going to have sex with him again."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"I know." John sighed. "I know. I forgot what it's like with him, the force of his personality. I thought my anger would insulate me. But it didn't." He stared out the window resolutely, grateful that Shane's arms held him so tightly. "I can't be around him, it's... too painful. He's... the same as he was... completely infuriating and...glorious... and I wanted him. I gave in because I wanted him. I REALLY wanted him. But it was goodbye. We both knew it."

"He was rather... confrontational. You're sure he knows it was a goodbye?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he knows - that's probably why he was especially dickish to you. It was there with us the whole time - a sadness...and desperation. Maybe it was cruel, but I needed him to know exactly what he'd thrown away. Exactly what he could have had if he hadn't been... such a complete idiot." Shane shuffled but didn't loosen his hold on John. "Sorry. He's brought out the worst in me."

Shane nuzzled John's ear. "What do YOU want, John? What do you need? It's ok if you need time... or if you..."

"I don't want you to leave." John said. "You probably should run away as far and as fast as you can. But I don't want you to." It was true. Maybe he loved Shane, or maybe he could love Shane if he got his head on straight. John didn't know, but he knew he liked being with him. He liked talking with him, hanging out with him. He liked fucking him. 

Sherlock could fuck himself.

They'd spent the day together, the two of them, reading quietly on the couch, John's feet tucked under Shane's thigh. They'd walked to an Indian place for curry that evening and John remembered he had a stalker. He'd got Sherlock and a stalker all at once. Something else to be angry about.

They didn't have sex that night. But Shane stayed over. (John changed the sheets without comment.) In the morning Shane wrapped his legs around John's hips and John's cock was happy to come out and play. Their lovemaking was sweet and then suddenly it was savage, Shane bit down on John's nipple, the pain an electric jolt straight to his prick and he had pounded Shane's arse, ignoring his gasps and cries until he was cumming.

And then... John had felt the rush of tears, of pain, that followed. He held it back, busying himself with the condom for a long moment while he regained his composure. Shane, overcome by his own climax, didn't seem to notice that John was preoccupied as they held each other. 

That's when John realized how unfair he was being to Shane, how selfish. Having him was a comfort and a distraction. But he pined for Sherlock. He was ashamed of himself for using Shane like this and that made him angrier with Sherlock. All of this was Sherlock's fault. How could he leave John thinking him dead and buried for TWO YEARS!?

That's the thought that roused him fully into consciousness, that rush of fury like a slap, like a bucket of cold water...

It was full dark, John waited for his eyes to adjust, to be able to pick out the shapes of the windows and the bed... but there was nothing. 

His fingers were numb. He was lying on his side and his hands were behind him. He tried to sit up and found he couldn't. He was bound - ropes covered his body, looping around and round. As he came more fully aware, he felt it digging into his bare flesh. He could touch intricate knots with his numb fingers. John realized he was tied up the way some doms bound their subs for sex play – he was naked, immobile and had ropes criss-crossing his body decoratively. 

They didn’t FEEL decorative. The more aware he became, the more painful it was – he had lost feeling in the arm he was lying on and could barely feel his feet, his hip and shoulder dug painfully into the floor. John flexed his arm and the ropes burned, becoming tighter and more constricting.

John fought down a wave of claustrophobia. The last thing he needed now was to panic. He focused on breathing – even that made the ropes dig harder into his chest – and slowly rolled onto his stomach. He would have preferred to lie on is back, but he didn’t want to lie on his already-numb hands. John couldn’t actually lie on his stomach – his legs were bent, and oh god what he wouldn’t give to straighten them! But using his head and shoulder, and ignoring the searing pain of the ropes cutting into his body, he managed to awkwardly roll onto his knees, his head and shoulder still pressed against the floor. 

That’s when John discovered the final indignity. His sex organs were exposed. The ropes carefully encircled the base of his penis and scrotum, presenting them outward. Flaccid, it was uncomfortable. Erect, John imagined it would be excruciating. Either way, he felt extremely vulnerable.

The arm he had been lying on exploded with pins and needles as John’s circulation resumed its normal course. He cried out - the pain was so sudden and he was unprepared. The cry sounded strange in this dark, enclosed chamber. Then he heard footsteps. He had attracted the attention of his captors. 

Captors. Yes. John remembered everything now. How three men had burst into his flat and surrounded him. They were aggressively silent. And just plain aggressive – John hadn’t been given a chance to fight OR surrender, a needle bit into his neck and his limbs felt heavy immediately. He remembered thinking ‘this is about Sherlock.’ The thought hadn’t made him angry. He’d felt… anticipation. Excitement. 

He heard a door rattle and swing open. The light blinded him, but he couldn’t miss the looming silhouette advancing into the room. John realized he was arse up towards the person. Great. 

John felt a sting on his buttock – an intense, painful sting – and he cried out again before he could stop himself. 

The person – his captor, a man – laughed and John felt the lash again. He was more prepared this time and managed to stifle his cry. The man started to lay into John’s arse, delivering blow after blow with the crop. It was excruciating. He clamped his teeth closed, but grunts and moans from the pain escaped regardless. He couldn’t help but to try and wriggle away from the beating and found himself laying on his side again.

The man picked him up – he was strong! – and carried John into the light. He dropped John onto some sort of hammock that cradled him. He was still incredibly uncomfortable, the bindings rubbing his skin raw, his buttocks inflamed and starting to bruise, but it felt immensely better than the hard floor.

 

And he was face up. John saw his captor – a tall, blonde man wearing a vest that showed off his muscular arms. He looked familiar… but John couldn’t remember where he’d seen the man before. But he must be Moran – that clicked into place in John’s mind and he was certain it was true. This was Moriarty’s friend who thought Sherlock had killed his nemesis. This was the person who had been stalking John. This man wanted revenge.

Did he know that Sherlock was alive?

Is that what whipping his arse had been about? Torture to make John talk? Moran hadn’t asked any questions. He hadn’t spoken at all.

“What’s this about then.” John asked coolly. Having an enemy to focus on was calming. John focused on Moran like a laser.

Moran looked down his nose at John. His severe black vest and warmup pants flattered his athletic form and he was handsome, strikingly so. Instead of answering, he leaned in and took hold of John’s cock. John gasped in surprise – and horror. Moran stroked him expertly and John felt himself begin to harden.

John knew this was an involuntary response – a completely natural response to the physical stimulation despite John’s state of mind. But he struggled to rise above the humiliation of it.

“I used to do this for Jim.” Moran said, still manipulating John’s penis expertly. “He needed… intense experiences. Very intense. He bored so easily.” John was full hard now. “Mm, you ARE a big boy. I wouldn’t have guessed.” Moran’s eyes flicked over John contemptuously and then he turned away.

When he turned back he was holding a crop – not the one he’d beaten John with before, this one was smaller, the size of a wand or a conductor’s baton. Without warning or ceremony, he began to beat John’s cock and balls with the little crop.

John screamed and squirmed, tried to get away from the evil whip. He felt like his scalp was being ripped off through his nuts. His ears were ringing and every nerve ending in his body was spontaneously immolating. He registered that someone was screaming "Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT STOPITSTOPSTOPSTOP!" seconds before he realized it was himself. Moran didn’t take any notice he was wholly focused on his task. It didn’t require much movement, just a constant flicking of his wrist – something John saw through the haze of pain. He recoiled deep into his mind, burrowing under the torture to a place where he was only dully aware of the crop digging into his bollocks, turning them ruby red, making them swell. 

“My Jim liked this particularly.” Moran said. “He often orgasmed twice. I’m not sure you will, though.” Moran stopped whipping suddenly and John slammed back to full awareness of his gasping, sniveling body – just in time to feel Moran’s hand grab him roughly and start stroking again.

John writhed – the hand stroked him dry, without lubricant, rubbing over the fresh welts with cruel proficiency. "Why!?" John managed, the syllable a stuttering wail. He gasped for air. "What do you want, Moran!?" John demanded. He shuddered involuntarily as he tried to squirm away from Moran's hand and the ropes ground the sweat that now covered his body into the raw skin, the salt burning.

Moran smiled down at John. "I didn't tell you my name." He said without pausing his jacking.

John was appalled to see his erection returning. And appalled to realize his mistake. Fuck! "You've been following me around for months." John said hoping it was true. "You think I wouldn't notice? Stop it! Stop touching me!" John tried to shift his hips away, but the hammock left him nowhere to go. 

"No, I don't think you did notice. I'm quite certain it was Sherlock Holmes ."

Goddammit. Half of John's body was completely numb, his circulation cut off by the ropes and his struggles, the rest was burning, prickling, relentless pain. "Sherlock's dead." He gasped, gagging a little 

Moran grinned wolfishly and picked up the little crop again.

"No!" John cried. "Get away from me!" 

Moran flicked his wrist, landing a stinging blow on the head of John's cock. The ropes bit hard as John cringed and flexed trying vainly to get away from the flail.

"Where is he? I know you know." Moran flicked again leaving another welt on John's bollocks. 

"Stop!"

"Where is he!?"

"In the fucking cemetery! He's DEAD! Are you daft?! He's dead!"

"He killed my Jim." Flick. "Where is he!?" Flick.

"'Your Jim' was a crazy motherfucker and if he's dead the world is better off!"

Suddenly Moran was on top of him, a big hand clamped around John's neck, cutting off his air. The man's knee dug into John's abused bollocks and John moaned in agony - but it was a poor, strangled sound.

"You were there!" Moran screamed, his breath hot on John's face. "You KNOW he killed my Jim! You saw everything!"

John tried to say 'no,' but There wasn't enough air in his lungs. Blackness started to swim around the edges of John's vision. 

Then Moran's hand was off his neck and John gulped at the air. A bruising slap brought his attention back to his tormentor. "You saw it." Moran repeated.

"No." John croaked. "I was on the ground. I saw Sherlock jump. I saw his body. His skull was crushed - there was no pulse. I didn't see Moriarty at all."

Moran slapped him again. "You lie!" He snarled. "You helped him escape!"

"Do you want the truth or are you going to batter me until I tell you what you WANT to hear?" John cried. "I wish to god I had helped him escape! I wish he'd come to me! I WOULD have helped him. But he didn't. I watched him die!"

Moran looked like he was going to hit John again - but then he changed. It was like a hood dropped down over his fury, masking it, hiding it. His features calmed into the blandly handsome face. His eyes were cold, distant. He stood and picked up the crop again. He applied himself energetically to the cock and ball torture. John screamed.

It wasn't until John was beginning to pass out from the pain that Moran stopped - as abruptly as he'd begun. John was hoarse from screaming, sweat and tears and snot covered his face. He knew he would never leave this room alive and he was beginning to long for death - for anything that would stop this agony.

"I don't need you to tell me where he is. Your boyfriend will tell me in exchange for information about you."

"HE'S DEAD!" John shouted, retching, choking on his own phlegm.

"Yes, it's time to visit Mr. Bruno." Moran smirked at John then turned and left the room.

John's heart sank. Shane WOULD give up Sherlock to trying and help John. He should have anticipated something like this - he should have prepared Shane. 

John tried to turn on his side in the hammock - he desperately needed to clear his airway, he could choke to death on his back. With maximum struggle, he achieved his goal and retched up the phlegm and saliva. Then he vomited helplessly, the watery contents of his stomach soaking the hammock by his face. John felt sicker and more miserable than he could ever remember feeling. He lay there, sobbing quietly, the phlegm and vomit pooling around his chin and neck, the ropes digging furrows in his abused flesh, his manhood throbbing and swelling obscenely. 

A thought occurred and John laughed at himself bitterly - all that effort to breathe freely. He could have stayed on his back and let himself die - his agony would have ended. He could have denied Moran the pleasure of torturing him to death. He could have saved Sherlock the trouble of trying to rescue him. 

God, he felt stupid.


	13. Beguiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seduces Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock studied the room. He’d been staring at photographs of this room for hours on end, trying to work out what bothered him about it. It was a beautiful room, a library with solid oak shelves and cupboards built into the walls and a decorative moulding at waist height. There was a leather couch and green upholstered easy chairs that matched the bits of green patterned wallpaper and the green Chinese rug. A large oak desk dominated one corner adjacent to a grand fireplace with more of the decorative moulding.  


Sherlock had been ushered into the room and left alone. He was no longer bound. Shane had been drugged immediately and spent the hour plus journey in the uncomfortable lorry passed out on the metal floor. But other than duct taping his wrists and ankles together, Sherlock hadn’t been touched. After ten minutes jouncing through traffic he’d envied Shane.  


They’d entered the house through a subterranean tunnel that connected to a parking garage – Shane had been left with the driver. Sherlock thought he knew where the parking garage was based on the length of the tunnel and the knowledge that the fireplace in the library was on the south wall. He’d prowled past it when reconnoitering the neighborhood. That felt like it was years ago.  


Sherlock walked the perimeter of the room, his fingers brushing the moulding, reading its whorls and swooshes like braille. He found what he was looking for on the opposite side of the fireplace from the desk. Looking at the layout of the room again, he saw that this area had been left purposely bare – no upholstered chair or hassock to get in the way.   


That mystery solved, Sherlock went to the desk. There was nothing of interest on top and the drawers were locked. He could force one, but that would be immediately obvious to Moran, something Sherlock wanted to avoid for now. He tried the cabinets built into the wall – these opened easily. Inside he found video monitors each displaying a different scene – there was the front door, the front garden, the back garden… Sherlock located one he thought must be the view from the camera on the rooftop opposite that he had almost blundered in front of.  


Others showed interior rooms – a bedroom, a kitchen, several nondescript rooms remarkable only for their plainness among the other sumptuous chambers, a long hallway that had to be the tunnel to the parking garage, other less distinctive passageways. Another showed a dungeon. Sherlock recognized the furniture used in recreational sex torture, a cross with built in shackles, a bench with straps and an attached fucking machine, a hip-height platform whose built in restraints looked positively gynecological, a sling hanging from the ceiling. There were a variety of whips and crops mounted on the wall and an impressive collection of dildos of various sizes near a cabinet that presumably held other paraphernalia.  


Sherlock looked closer. Someone was in the sling – he could see the outline of the body. Feet, with ropes looped around the ankles protruded from one end. The video was high enough resolution that Sherlock could see the intricate knotting that held every loop of rope in place. Freeing the person would require that each loop be individually cut.  


There was no way he could be certain that the person tied up in the sling was John. But it WAS him, Sherlock knew it.  


Sherlock heard voices in the hallway. He closed the cabinets and chose a chair close to the fireplace.  


Colonel Sebastian Moran came in. He shut the door, but then just stood still and examined Sherlock. Sherlock examined him in return. Today he wore a caramel colored suit with a subtle purple check that muted the bright golds to an acceptable level. His shirt was aubergine, as was his pocket square. He didn’t wear a tie. His shoes were the bright orange handmade wingtips, his watch flashy gold affair. He wore a diamond ring, the thick platinum band looked almost delicate on his masculine hand. Sherlock saw a vain man who wore his 45 years well, a disciplined man who worked out compulsively and trained with his rifle obsessively. A killer – he took no special pleasure in killing but had no remorse either, just the sense of accomplishment that accompanies a job well done. Intelligent, organized, precise, but with a ravenous hunger for ‘the good life’ – beautiful things, a stately mansion in London, bespoke clothing, fine wine and liquor. Achieving these things was important. Having them was hollow. Moran would never understand why the things he wanted so much didn’t make him happy.  


Moriarty had trusted this man because he had understood him completely. He had dangled a ‘thing’ Moran wanted to achieve in front of him, forever just out of reach. That had been Moran’s sense of purpose, working towards whatever Moriarty dangled. It was himself, Sherlock realized – Jim Moriarty was the beautiful, exquisitely rare thing that would always slip through Sebastian Moran’s fingers, yet still be so tantalizingly close.  


Until Moriarty killed himself. He had killed Moran’s reason for being – his pursuit of happiness – when he had swallowed his gun. He had left Moran with his beautiful, meaningless things, aimless and angry, with nothing left to pursue. For this, Moran blamed Sherlock.  


Finally, he spoke. “You have the same look in your eyes that Jim had sometimes. I’ve never seen it anywhere else. Is that why he was obsessed with you? Because you were alike?”  


“Yes.”  


“Why did you kill him?”  


“As much as I’d like to take credit for that, I can’t. Jim killed himself.”  


That took Moran a moment to digest. Sherlock saw his denial, his distress, his ultimate acceptance in the microexpressions that crossed his face.  


“That was supposed to be you. You were the one who was supposed to kill himself.”  


“Jim thought his death would ensure mine.” He read Moran’s doubt. “He knew we were alike – how MUCH we were alike. He knew he couldn’t hide anything from me for long, not something I was motivated to find out. His mistake was having an abort code. All I had to do was figure out what it was and I would have beaten him. Jim chose to eat a bullet rather than to allow that to happen.”  


“So why didn’t you die?”  


Sherlock smiled faintly. “I had anticipated the suicide scenario and made preparations.”  


“Are you saying that you were smarter than he was?” The words were bland, but Sherlock saw Moran’s outrage plainly in the slight tightening of his jaw.  


“No, I’m saying we were more alike than either of us wanted to admit.” And Sherlock had had Mycroft who WAS smarter than Jim Moriarty (when he wasn’t being an idiot). In some areas, he was smarter than Sherlock and Moriarty combined. Best Moran never know about Mycroft.  


Moran nodded and walked to the desk. Sherlock watched him closely. He’s deciding whether to kill me, he deduced. He had intended to kill me when he walked in the door. Now he’s not sure.   


Moran unlocked a drawer and pulled out a handgun. He flicked off the safety and pointed it at Sherlock.  


“Oh.” Sherlock said. “Boring.”  


“What?!”  


“You have before you the only person who could conceivably fill the void that Jim left and you decide to kill him?” Sherlock sighed. “I thought you’d be more interesting. But you’re just as boring as everyone else. What DID Jim see in you?” Sherlock gestured with irritation. “Get on with it then.”   


Moran stared at Sherlock for a long moment. Then he flicked the safety back on and lowered the gun. “Jim always wondered what you saw in Dr. Watson. I can’t say spending time with him has shed any light on it.”   


Sherlock shrugged. “If Jim had really wanted to know, he would only have had to make the effort. I assure you, John would have beguiled him as he has me.”   


“Beguiled…?” Moran’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes.  


“Which is why I assume there must be more to you than meets the eye. Jim wouldn’t have bothered with you otherwise.” Sherlock shifted in the chair, subtly spreading his legs, displaying his crotch to the other man.  


Moran licked his lips unconsciously. “Do you want to find out?” Moran asked and Sherlock knew he had him.  


Sherlock shrugged. “Is it worth the effort? I’d rather you just kill me now than bore me.”  


“You won’t be disappointed. Jim wasn’t.”  


“Mm.” Sherlock said noncommittally, conveying how unconvincing Moran’s assurances were.  


Moran tucked the handgun into the waistband at the back of his trousers. It didn’t ruin the line of his suit at all. He glanced at the cabinet that held the video monitors. “Dr. Watson still has to die – and the other fellow. But I’ll make it quick.”  


“That seems… foolish.”  


Moran frowned. He was still dangerous.  


Sherlock leaned forward. “You don’t think that I would be more… motivated – more patient with the dull process of getting to know someone new – if you could continue to threaten John’s existence? Seb.” Sherlock made the name sound like an endearment AND a challenge.   


Moran understood perfectly now, he understood that Sherlock was playing him, offering himself – his time and attention – in exchange for John’s safety. But he still wanted it. When Sherlock had said his name, the man’s eyes had dilated. Maybe Jim Moriarty had called him ‘Seb.’ Maybe Sebastian Moran had only wished that Jim would call him that.   


Sherlock stood up. “It’s time, don’t you think, to get John out of that sling.” He walked past Moran without looking at him. “There are better uses for it.” Sherlock went directly to the side of the fireplace and pressed the hidden button he’d found in the moulding. The wall opened, a section of shelves swung out revealing a hidden passageway. Sherlock turned back to Moran who looked genuinely surprised. “After you.” He said.  


Moran blinked and his astonishment turned to something else – covetousness. Desire. He WANTED Sherlock now. He was hooked.  


Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently.   


Moran smiled wolfishly and led the way.  


The passage wended its way between the walls of the old mansion to a stairwell. Sherlock followed Moran down. It took them to a small room with five doors. One was for the stair they had just descended, one Sherlock recognized as the elevator in which he'd been brought into the house - which meant the door opposite was the tunnel to the parking garage. That left two doors. Moran pulled out a key and unlocked one of them and held it open for Sherlock.   


More stairs. At the bottom two passages forked away. Moran indicated the right passage, it corkscrewed downward and they walked its curving length together. They were of a height and their shoulders touched now and again. Neither man shied away from the contact.  


At the bottom of the corkscrew, there was another locked door. Moran pulled out a key - from a different pocket, Sherlock noted – and let them in.   


It was the sex dungeon Sherlock had seen on the surveillance video. He didn't allow himself to run directly to John as he wanted to, he looked around the room slowly, taking it all in, feigning mild interest.   


Sherlock went to the hip-height platform and hopped up to sit between the stirrup restraints. Moran couldn't tear his eyes away. Sherlock swung his legs and leaned back on his hands invitingly. He still wore the old, paint-stained jeans and jumper of his artist’s disguise, but they were both form fitting and the blue of the jumper complemented his eyes.  


Moran approached hesitantly, but was emboldened by their eye contact. He stood between Sherlock's legs and after another long moment looking into each other's eyes, Moran placed his hand on the table between Sherlock's legs and leaned in.   


Sherlock let him get close enough that he could feel Moran's shallow, excited breaths against his cheek. Only then did he break the intense eye fuck to look over at John, prone in the sling.  


"Get rid of him first." He said.  


Moran's head dropped in momentary frustration, but he pushed himself away from the table and turned towards John.   


From his vantage point, Sherlock could see into the sling. John had ropes encircling him from neck to ankle, dozens of the byzantine knots marched up his body in a neat seam.   


John was awake and alert - he had reacted when he heard Sherlock speak - but he lay unmoving. Sherlock slid off the table and stood next to Moran, his shoulder just skimming the other man's. They approached John – and Sherlock smelled him. He stank of urine and vomit. He saw the puddles on the rubbery fabric of the sling, and worse, saw blood. The ropes had dug in and rubbed his skin away. John must have been left alone like this for many hours.  


Closer still, he saw the welts from being whipped – his buttock was covered in hot pink, crisscrossing lines. And so were his cock and balls.   


For the first time, Sherlock considered what seducing Sebastian Moran would mean. Sherlock had had sex once with the only person he'd ever desired. To go from that to being strapped down spread eagled on a table or cross – or to the bench attached to the fucking machine! – and allow this stranger to do whatever he wanted to him... for a second Sherlock quailed.   


But if he could save his dearest John from this nightmare... there was no other choice. Sherlock would deal with the consequences later.  


Moran pulled a pocket knife out and unfolded a wicked looking blade. He knelt in front of the sling, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the stench. "Jesus, he pissed himself."  


"He’s been like this for at least twelve hours." Sherlock said blandly. “What do you expect.”  


Moran glanced up briefly in surprise, but didn't reply.  


Sherlock didn’t bother telling him how he knew – the vomit was the giveaway. It was tea and toast from the look of it, with a hefty amount of mucous, halfway dried and sticking to the sling. And, unfortunately, to John.  


John opened an eye a crack and looked around warily as Moran slipped the blade under the first loop of rope and sawed outward, cutting it. The rope had dug an ugly furrow around John's ankles - Sherlock noted that he didn't flex his feet or sigh with relief - he'd lost feeling in the limbs. Any hope that John would be able to walk out of here quickly fled. Sherlock thought there might even be a chance that John had incurred permanent damage. Moran had not intended to ever release John from these ropes.  


Moran methodically sawed through the bindings, first freeing John's legs – they sprawled unmoving – then his torso and hands, on up to his chest and shoulders and finally cut the rope around his neck. Every coil had left its mark on John, he was bleeding from a dozen rope burns and his body was striped red and white where the blood had pooled unable to circulate normally beneath the tight cords.  


As Moran stepped back to survey his work, Sherlock reached out and tugged John’s arm out from under him – his circulation needed to get back to normal as quickly as possible. John had both eyes open now, they were locked on Sherlock.  


“Can you move?” Sherlock asked.  


John rolled his shoulders and twitched the fingers on the hand that hadn’t been trapped under him.  


Sherlock nodded. He turned to Moran. “He needs medical attention. Where’s the other one – Bruno? He can take him.”  


Moran consulted his watch. “He should be fully conscious soon.”  


“Good.” He surveyed John’s prone, helpless form again. “Let’s get him ready.”  


Moran was already moving across the room to a hose coiled neatly on the wall. He turned the single faucet and tested the stream of water. “Watch out.” He told Sherlock, indicating that he was going to spray John and the sling.  


Sherlock stepped aside, noting the drain in the floor. The entire room must be slightly tilted towards the drain. Moran started dousing John, rinsing away the urine and filth. Sherlock saw John clamping his jaw closed – his returning circulation must be excruciating.  


“Can you sit him up?” Moran asked.  


Sherlock grabbed John under the arms and lifted him awkwardly into a sitting position. The water was freezing, that couldn’t be pleasant. He hoped it would shock John’s system, help it function properly, but he feared the cold might retard his circulation even more.  


Impulsively, he pulled John forward, over his shoulder, and lifted him off the sling in a fireman’s hold. He looked around for a good place to sit him down while Moran took the opportunity to really scrub the sling clean.  


There was a sofa and an easy chair to one side, arranged around an area rug. Sherlock carried John to the sofa, noting the tea table and tea things. How often did Moran tie someone up – or strap him to the bench and start up the fucking machine – then retire to the sofa for a cuppa?  


He laid John out and took the opportunity to hastily rub John’s hands in an attempt to promote blood flow. He avoided looking at John’s swollen and bruised sex organs. Sherlock knew exactly what had happened the moment he saw them. He put it out of his mind.  


“I knew you’d come.” John croaked with a weak smile. His eyes were tearing freely, making little rivers down his cheeks, joining with the rivulets his wet hair was making on the couch cushions.  


“Hush.” Sherlock said. “He’s watching.”  


John turned his head to see Moran hosing down the floor around the sling. “Why are we still alive?” He whispered. “How are we getting out of here?”  


“You’re going to hospital.” Sherlock said, aware that their conversation could be overheard. Or even recorded. “I want to get to know the Colonel better. Jim Moriarty must have seen something special in him. I’m…curious.”  


“You’re staying here.” John asked flatly.  


“John, you know how alike Jim and I were. You remarked upon it more than once.” John had never said any such thing, of course.  


But he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get it.” John said. “I think…but…”  


The sound of the water stopped abruptly. Sherlock looked up to see Moran meticulously replacing the hose on its reel.  


He moved down the couch and began rubbing one of John’s feet briskly, dismayed by how cold and white it was. “He needs fluids.” Sherlock addressed Moran as he approached. “Tea, juice – juice would be perfect.”

Moran nodded and disappeared.

“You can’t stay here.” John said. 

“I want to stay.” Sherlock said blithely. He shook his head and put a finger to his lips briefly.

John groaned with frustration. “Ow! Fuck!” He exclaimed. 

“You can feel your foot now.” Sherlock observed. “Good.” He started rubbing John’s other foot.

John was breathing rhythmically now, inhaling and exhaling with grim purpose – he was bearing the pain, trying not to cry out. 

Moran returned with juice and biscuits. He took the kettle away for water. 

Sherlock picked up a glass of the juice. “Can you hold it? No, not yet. Here.” Sherlock helped John sit more upright and then held the glass to his lips. “Drink it all.” He said, wishing they had a straw. He was making a hash of feeding John the juice, tilting it too far or not enough, spilling it down his chin. But John didn’t complain. 

“I’m getting you out of here.” Sherlock subvocalized, lips barely moving. “It’s my fault he took you.”

“It’s Moran’s fault.” John contradicted. “You can’t stay with him.”

“When you’re safe, I’ll worry about that.”

“You know what he did to me.” Sherlock couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking to John’s lap. “Yeah. I can’t bear the thought of him doing anything like that to you.” He caressed Sherlock’s side with clumsy fingers.

“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock lied, loving John even more. How could love be so boundless? How could it take up every part of him and still grow? “Once you’re out, you can gather the cavalry.”

“Sherlock…!”

“You’re in no shape to argue. Please, do it for me. I need you to be safe. – Hush, he’s coming.”

Moran dropped a pile of clothes at Sherlock’s feet. “Those are his.” He said. Then he plugged in the kettle and readied the teapot. 

Sherlock set down the empty juice glass and handed John a biscuit. “Here, you can hold this on your own.” He stood and moved closer to Moran, conscious that he’d been left alone with John far longer than Moran would be comfortable with. He sighed. “This is tedious.”

Moran shrugged. “Killing him would only take a jif.”

Sherlock looked back at John as if he were considering it. “But think of the mess.”

“Jim didn’t like killing either. Not firsthand, anyway.”

“I suppose you were very useful to him then.”

Moran laid his hand on Sherlock’s hip. “In many ways.” He said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and frowned, conveying that Moran was being VERY forward. 

Moran smirked and his fingers tightened momentarily. The kettle clicked off, indicating the water had boiled, and Moran let go and turned back to the tea.

John had witnessed the exchange – his eyes were as big as saucers. He looked away and began to clumsily and painstakingly dress, drying himself with his t-shirt, covering his battered nudity as hastily as he could, keeping his grimaces and groans of pain to the bare minimum possible. Sherlock longed to help him, but he kept his eyes and his attention on Moran. He took the cup of tea he was offered.

“Sugar?” He asked.

Moran was momentarily at a loss, then he knelt and opened a drawer and pulled out a sugar bowl. It contained ancient sugar cubes. Sherlock pried three from the mass and dropped them in his tea. They didn’t dissolve immediately.

Moran’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. He turned away and put it to his ear – and the outline of the handgun he’d tucked in his waistband showed. Sherlock couldn’t tell if John saw it. Moran turned back and downed his tea in one gulp. “The other one is up and antsy. Are we ready to go?”

John shoved his socks in his pocket and began to try to work his boots onto his feet. “Just a minute.” He said. He had pulled his jumper and jeans on over bare skin. He hadn’t been able to button the flies – he was still having a lot of trouble with fine motor skills – but he was covered.

Sherlock sipped his tea while he waited for John to finish with his boots. John stood up determinedly and shuffled forward but lost his balance almost immediately and caught himself on the tea table, jarring everything on it. 

“Oh bloody hell.” Moran swore. He went to John and jerked his jeans up to his waist and buttoned them roughly. John looked furious, but kept quiet. However, when Moran grabbed his wrist and started to bend down to carry John over his shoulder he tried to pull away.

“I can walk!” He insisted. 

“Not without help.” Sherlock said brusquely. “It’s faster to simply carry you.”

John’s eyes burned with rage, but he allowed Moran to hoist him over his shoulder. Moran smirked at Sherlock as they retraced their steps up the corkscrewing passage to the stairs and then down the long subterranean tunnel that led to the parking garage. 

Shane Bruno was sitting on the bumper of the lorry looking both terrified and impatient. One of Moran’s thugs was there, casually holding a gun. When he saw them approaching, Shane jumped up. “John!” He called, distressed. 

“He’s fine.” Sherlock informed him icily.

Shane nodded but looked mistrustful, his eyes bouncing between Sherlock and Moran, taking in their body language and coming to a conclusion that he plainly couldn’t quite believe.

Moran set John down, none too carefully, by Shane. John immediately used his friend to steady himself on his feet. Shane got an arm under John’s and wrapped it around his back, supporting him. “What did you do to him?” He asked, his eyes accusing both Sherlock and Moran. 

“I’m OK, Shane.” John said authoritatively. “Just a bit numb still, it will pass.” He stared down Moran. “Can we go?” He asked.

Moran stared back for a long, tense moment. Then he nodded. “Nige, give them a ride…”

“We’ll walk.” John said. He tugged on Shane and Sherlock watched as they walked slowly away, Shane supporting John, keeping him upright. 

When they got to the lift, Moran nodded at his henchman. “Follow them.” He said. “Make sure…”

“No.” Sherlock cut in. “Let them alone.”

Nige looked uncertainly at Moran. Moran huffed. “Leave them alone.” He agreed finally. “Go on back to the house.” Sherlock watched the big man disappear into the tunnel. He heard the lift ding and John and Shane were gone.

Moran’s hand settled on Sherlock’s hip. “Shall we?” He asked, indicating the tunnel. 

The pit of Sherlock’s stomach twisted in fear and his mouth suddenly tasted like bile, but he smiled warmly, making sure the warmth reached his eyes, and nodded.


	14. The Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran tells how he killed a tiger.

As soon as the lift doors closed, John staggered and moaned. Shane needed both arms to hold him upright.   
   
"He has a gun." John voice was strained and hoarse - every word sounded painful. "Moran has a gun in his waistband – I was over his shoulder, I could have taken the gun and killed him. It was the perfect opportunity! But I couldn't! I couldn't make my fingers work...." John sobbed, holding up his hands. Shane saw the ugly, raw bruises around his wrists, saw that his hands were swollen. "And now he has Sherlock! I just left him there! How could I leave him with that monster...?!"  
   
"Shhh, John..." Shane tried to calm him - but he'd never seen John like this. John never fell apart. "Sherlock can take care of himself."  
   
"No, he can't. He THINKS he can, but he's shite at it. Jesus! I have to go back! I have to help him!"  
   
"The only place you're going is hospital." Shane said firmly.   
   
"No, Shane...!"  
   
"John! You just said you can't make your hands work! You can't stand on your own – how can you help Sherlock? I don't know why he let us go, but Sherlock will have to be ok on his own, because I am taking you to hospital!"  
   
"He traded himself...” John was almost sobbing. “…for our freedom. He made some kind of deal with Moran... he doesn't know! He doesn't know what he's in for...!"  
   
"John!" Shane didn't shout, but his tone cut through John's growing hysteria. "If that's what he did – Sherlock, staying back so Moran would let you leave – he just saved your life! It's obvious you're seriously hurt – we aren't going back and getting killed!”

“Shane…”

“No, John – it would defeat Sherlock’s purpose! You're going to hospital! We can call the police to help him."  
   
John looked at Shane defiantly. Then his face crumpled and he nodded. "You're right. But not the police. I need a phone. I know who to call."  
   
They arrived at street level and Shane half-carried John out and onto the pavement. "I'll flag a cab and you can use his phone while we go to hospital. What did he do, John? Why can't you walk?"  
   
"He tied me up – impeded circulation. I don't know how long... but it’s not good – I could lose my legs! And my left hand... I was lying on it... I can't feel my fingers..."  
   
"John!" Shane was horrified.  
   
"My legs hurt, my feet, that's a good sign." John was clearly trying to gain control of his distress. "I don't know how long he left me like that. If it was too long... the flesh will die and they'll have to amputate...oh god…"  
   
"Ok. You'll be ok." Shane said soothingly. John's panic was contagious and Shane felt himself succumbing – he tried to shove it aside, focus on the task at hand. "Here, sit here - I'm going to the corner, try to find a cab." He helped John down as gently as possible, but saw how John winced and groaned as he sat. "I won't let you out of my sight."  
   
Shane jogged to the end of the block - the neighborhood was dark and quiet. He wondered if he should start banging on doors, get someone to call an ambulance. Then he caught sight of a woman walking towards him. "Hello, ma'am?” Shane jogged towards her, waving an arm. “My friend is hurt. May I borrow your mobile to call an ambulance? Or could you call an ambulance? Please?" He tried to be as calm and non-threatening as possible, he didn't want this woman to fear him.  
   
"Where is your friend?" She asked. She had a hint of an accent – French he realized.   
   
"Down here." Shane gestured. He was relieved when she followed him.  
   
John took one look and attempted to smile. "Madam Dusette." He croaked. "I presume Sherlock called you in?"  
   
"Oui. Yes. It's good you are no longer kidnapped, Dr. Watson. Where is Sherlock?"  
   
"He's still with Moran."  
   
"John needs an ambulance." Shane interjected. "He needs to get to hospital - he's injured."  
   
Dusette was already pulling her phone out. "Yes, I can see Dr. Watson does not feel his best. I call my people – they will take him for care."  
   
"May I use your phone?" John asked as she finished texting. "I need to call in the cavalry."  
   
She held out her mobile to him with a small, cheerless smile. John winced as he reached out – he touched the phone, ran his puffy fingers along the edge. "Goddammit motherfucker." He muttered. He cleared his throat - something else that obviously caused him pain. "Erm... can you dial?" John asked, his face grim.  
   
She nodded. He listed off the numbers from memory and she held the phone to his ear. Shane felt ill – the seriousness of John's injuries hitting him in the gut. He fought down the panic again as John spoke tersely into Dusette's phone.  
   
"Madam, are you going in after him?" John asked as she disconnected for him.  
   
"Oui. I've been in the house before. I know my way around."  
   
"Have you been in the dungeon? It's under the house."  
   
"Dungeon? No."  
   
"I think he'll take Sherlock there."  
   
John described how they'd come out, the long tunnel to the parking garage, the vestibule with the lift and doors, which door led to the dungeon, the stairs and the long corkscrewing hall... By the time he'd finished, a van was pulling up. Two men got out and she gave them concise instructions, they carried John between them to the van and laid him in the back.  
   
Shane climbed in after him. He hastily shed his cardigan and tucked it under John's head then he picked up John's hand and kissed it. "I'll come to hospital as soon as I can." He said.  
   
"You're not coming with me!" John croaked, the piteous tone clear despite his effort to fight it.  
   
"No – Madam Dusette is going back in, I'm going with her."  
   
"No, Shane...!"  
   
"I'm doing this – I'll bring Sherlock to hospital. To you."  
   
"Why?"  
   
Shane leaned down and kissed John. "Because I love you, John. And you love him." Shane smiled wearily. "And he saved my life and I REALLY don't want to owe that prick anything."  
   
"Shane..."  
   
"I'll see you soon, John." Shane said doing his best to sound positive. He started to get out of the van.   
   
"I love you too, Shane." John called. "Be careful."  
   
Shane looked back and tried to smile reassuringly. "Go get better." He closed the van doors and watched it drive off.  
   
Then he turned to Madam Dusette. She was a curious woman – Shane estimated that she was at least 60 years old, maybe even ten years older. She was diminutive, short and lithe with a gamin quality that he associated with very young women. She wore slim trousers, ballet flats, a dark raincoat and a black beret over her short, silver hair - with her red lipstick and simple shoulder bag, she looked like a lady out for a late night walk. But the way she moved reminded Shane of an acrobat or a dancer – superb balance and agility. And absolutely silence. Shane realized she didn't make a sound when she moved.  
   
She seemed mildly surprised that Shane had decided to join her, but she made no comment. Instead she held out the mobile so Shane could see and hit ‘redial.’ “Monsieur Mycroft?... Yes, Dr. Watson just spoke to you. I am calling about him… He goes to –––– hospital now, he needs help, I think. An advocate, a companion… No, no one is with him… he is hurt quite badly… Oui, good.” She disconnected and looked at Shane. “That is taken care of.” She said.

Shane was grateful that she’d thought to call whoever it was she and John had talked to. "The tunnel is back this way." He said, gesturing at the building behind her. "There's a lift..."  
   
"No, no lift – too dangerous, too exposed. We want stairs. Or the ramp."  
   
They found stairs and made their way to the tunnel – she picked the lock expertly – and as they walked through it towards Moran (she in perfect silence, he with footsteps that echoed off the walls), Shane reflected on his choice to walk back into the lion's den. He was frightened – he was scared out of his mind! But he was more frightened by the thought of John losing his hand or his legs. He should be there with him, helping John face his new physical reality, whatever it was. Perhaps confronting Moran had been the cowardly choice after all.  
   
   
\---  
   
   
"You killed a tiger." Sherlock said. "Would you show me the pelt?"  
   
"Where did you hear that?" Moran asked. Sherlock could see his pleasure at the question, his desire to show off for Sherlock, through his suspicion.  
   
"I read your book." Sherlock replied. "It's true, isn't it? You tracked a wounded tiger down a drainage ditch. In India? You didn't say where."  
   
Moran's suspicions faded leaving him chuffed. He smiled a little, his military posture seeming to become even straighter and taller. "Yes, India." He said.  
   
"Tell me about it."  
   
"You already know – you read it."  
   
"I want to hear you tell it." Sherlock said, making eye contact. He had learned how to flirt as a child. He'd been astonished, at Uni to discover that if he flirted, the person soon expected sex. After that, Sherlock restricted flirting to when he was play-acting a rôle.   
   
Like now.  
   
"It was a little village about two hundred klicks outside of Rishikesh. A tiger had been killing goats. Then she took a child. No one in the village felt safe, they kept their fires burning all night long, even though it was hot. 

“We set up camp on the edge of the jungle and staked out a goat and waited. She stalked our camp for two nights before she finally came for the goat. One of the men took a shot. He hit the beast, but he was sloppy. She ran off – god, she was beautiful, big as horse and vibrant orange. I tracked her and found the drain. It was old and overgrown. The village had largely forgotten about it. But she – the tiger – had been using it..."  
   
They arrived at the vestibule where the tunnel met the lift. And the door to the dungeon.   
   
"She's in my bedroom." Moran said with an appraising smile.   
   
Sherlock raised his eyebrows feigning mild surprise. He'd known, of course, that Moran had the pelt there – the tailor's assistant had told him. He thought Moran's bedroom, as suggestive as that was, might be safer than the dungeon. It couldn't be any worse.  
   
"Is she the only woman in your bedroom, or one among many?" Sherlock asked as Moran opened the gate of the old-fashioned lift.  
   
"Are you jealous?" Moran asked.  
   
"I'm curious." Sherlock said as they entered the lift. It was small.  
   
"I've always preferred men – they're tougher, more... durable."  
   
Oh, fuck. "Sounds like your tiger was tough."  
   
"Yes. She was magnificent. A worthy exception." Moran pressed the button for the second floor and turned towards Sherlock. He was very close in the small space. "What about you, Sherlock? Men? Women?"  
   
Sherlock shrugged. "Neither." He said. "It's always seemed... superfluous."  
   
"What do you mean?"  
   
"Unnecessary. Distracting. Boring."  
   
Moran eyed him closely. "Not even the 'beguiling' Dr. Watson?"  
   
Sherlock smiled self-deprecatingly. "A passing flirtation. Turns out I'm not his type."  
   
"He rejected YOU?" Moran asked, his brow furrowed in confusion and simmering outrage.  
   
Sherlock shrugged again. "It was for the best – I didn't want the distraction."   
   
The old lift shuddered to a halt and Moran turned away to open the gate. "Jim was like that when I met him. He said sex was boring and people were worse than boring. He couldn't imagine wasting the time and energy on any of them."  
   
"But you changed his mind." Sherlock said. "He was your lover."  
   
"Yes." Moran gestured down the hall and Sherlock followed him.  
   
"How long were you together?"  
   
"Six years." Moran said. "Off and on."  
   
"How did you change his mind?"  
   
Moran opened a door with an ornate iron door handle and revealed the master's suite. It was a large room with a grand fireplace and an imposing four poster bed set diagonally so it caught warmth from the fire. There were Indian rugs on the floor – layered rugs, each more beautiful than the last. In the reaches of the room, Sherlock could make out chairs, a small table and a gentleman's wardrobe, but the locus of the bedroom was the fireplace and the enormous tiger pelt rug before it.   
   
Sherlock walked to the edge of the pelt and knelt, touching the edge reverently. Moran knelt next to him.  
   
"I followed her down the drainage pipe." Moran continued his story. “It was old – used to prevent flooding in the rainy season. I suppose it still worked well enough, no one paid any attention to it. Certainly no one had been maintaining it, it was full of roots and vines and other growing things. I had to crawl on my hands and knees, my rifle across my chest so it wouldn’t get caught on vines.   
   
“She’d left a blood trail into the drain, but it was drips. She wasn’t losing a lot of blood. The wound might not even be fatal if she could keep it from becoming infected. It wouldn’t rob her of much of her speed and strength, and the adrenalin would more than make up for it. If she found me in the drain, she’d make short work of me before I could bring my gun to bear. I could hear her up ahead, growling and tearing at the foliage as she ran, but I couldn’t see anything. It was black as pitch.  
   
“I followed her through the drain for a long time – long after I stopped being able to hear her. When I came to the mouth of the drain, the moonlight was so bright, it dazzled my eyes. I found her trail easily – more blood and claw marks where she’d torn out hunks of dirt and plants in her haste. They were huge, these tracks, her paws larger than my head.  
   
“Then I heard her. There were the remains of a goat – or maybe several – around the mouth of the drain and I realized that she was nearby – tigers sleep near their prey to keep scavengers away. I had the rifle up to my eye in a second. I didn’t dare move, but I scanned the area slowly. She was there, not ten feet away, looking at me. She crouched and I knew she was preparing to spring. I fired and she dropped. I’d gotten her right between the eyes – she didn’t feel a thing.”  
   
“It’s beautiful.” Sherlock said.  
   
Moran laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It feels amazing on bare skin.” He tugged a little at the jumper.  
   
Sherlock’s stomach twisted, but he smiled at Moran and pulled the jumper and t-shirt together off over his head.  
   
Moran’s fingers wandered over Sherlock’s bare chest. “Beautiful.” He whispered. He gripped both of Sherlock’s arms and guided him down to lay on the tiger’s pelt. 

Sherlock yawned and stretched, savoring the feel of the tiger's fur on his back. Moran shed his jacket and removed the pistol from the waistband of his trousers. "I expected Dr. Watson to try and take this – use it against me." He opened the chamber and spun it, showing Sherlock that it was empty. He pulled bullets from his pocket and started reloading the gun. "His injuries must be quite severe for him to pass up a chance like that."

Sherlock watched him finish with the gun and set it aside without commenting. Anything he said would betray his deep anxiety over John's state of health.

"It might have been kinder to let him go quietly – the worst was already over. Whatever life he has left will be… painful."

Sherlock ran his hand down the pelt to Moran's knee and poked it. "Boring." He said – he didn't want to talk about John with this monster. "You were being so delightfully interesting before." Sherlock yawned again. "It's late. We should sleep."  

Moran stretched out facing him, his hand caressing Sherlock's chest. "Your body is so different than his. I never told him how lovely I thought you were. He wouldn't have liked that."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was John's fingers skimming his skin. It helped a little. "Where did he sleep?" He asked.

Moran's hand dipped lower, moving across Sherlock's abdomen. "You think if I'm asleep you can leave?"

"Where could I go, Seb, where your rifle scope couldn't find me?" Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes, but he felt the little tremble in Moran's fingers when he said 'Seb.' "I've crawled down the drain after the tiger, running would be certain death. Do you think me that stupid? Would HE have been that stupid?"

Moran sighed. His hand resting on Sherlock's hipbone, the tips of his fingers under the waistband of his trousers. "Jim embraced death every day.”

Suddenly Sherlock felt both of Moran's hands pressing on his neck, cutting off his air. His eyes flew open – Moran’s face was inches from his own. They locked eyes. Sherlock forced himself to relax, to not struggle. He let Moran choke him, keeping the eye contact until the black swam over his vision and he lost consciousness. 

He came to – it must have been only moments later. Moran still leaned over him, but he could breathe freely. Sherlock lifted a hand to Moran’s face and touched his cheek. He let his fingers travel to Moran’s hair and pulled his face close. Sherlock kissed him. 

He’d kissed Victor many years ago, and John much more recently, of course. In-between he’d found it expedient to snog several people as a means to an end. Other than John – and to a lesser degree, Victor – he focused on technique, paying attention to his partner’s reactions and adjusting for optimum results. It was no different with Moran, except touching the man made Sherlock want to scream. He tried to channel his hatred and loathing into passion. They were all strong emotions. 

Moran seemed convinced. But when he started unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, Sherlock realized there was no way he was going to get hard. Moran would know for certain this was nothing but a sham.

But Moran didn’t notice or didn’t care – he didn’t bother to check. He forced Sherlock onto his belly, his face pressed into the tiger’s pelt. ‘He’s going to fuck me.’ Sherlock realized. He repressed a shudder as Moran’s body pressed against his and Moran kissed and bit his neck. 

He tried to prepare, to psych himself up for the ordeal… but it was all Sherlock could do not to succumb to panic and try to fight the man off.

Moran hooked his fingers under Sherlock’s waistband and tugged down his trousers and pants roughly. It hurt as the fabric scraped across his privates and he moaned. Moran took that as encouragement and squeezed one of his buttocks aggressively.

Should he pretend it was John? Sherlock didn’t want to. He didn’t want to desecrate his feelings for John this way. But John would want him to do it if it made this any less horrible. Would it? Would it help to think of the grabby hands bruising his flesh as John’s? Sherlock’s entire being revolted at the idea. 

Those hands were between his legs now, probing, finding. Sherlock writhed, but made himself stay where he was, under Moran. He heard Moran’s belt clink – he was opening his trousers. It would happen soon. Sherlock dug his fingers into the tiger’s fur – the beautiful, murdered tiger… he felt Moran’s erection pressing against his arse…

“What!?” Moran shouted suddenly, shocking Sherlock. He had sat up.

Sherlock heard the door open, but didn’t turn to look. “Uh, excuse me sir, an alarm has gone off. You wanted to be notified.”

“Where?”

“The playroom, sir.”

“I see. Thank you.” The door closed. 

Sherlock didn’t move, he lay arse up on the tiger’s pelt – certainly quite the show for whatever minion had disturbed them. He waited for Moran’s hands to descend on him once more, for the pressure of his erect prick against his tender flesh. But it didn’t come. Instead, he heard Moran’s belt once more.

“Your friends are looking for you...” Moran said. “…in the playroom.” Sherlock turned his head in time to see Moran pick up the handgun, inspect it, and tuck it back into his waistband. “Let’s not disappoint them.” He tossed Sherlock’s jumper at him and stood up. 

Sherlock pushed himself to his knees and pulled his jeans up. He picked up his t-shirt and jumper and slipped them over his head. He immediately felt safer, though he knew that was illusory.

As he stood, Moran took firm hold of Sherlock’s upper arm and started marching him towards the hall. “Let’s go see who’s come calling.” He said. “There will be plenty of time to play afterwards.”


	15. The Dance of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown!

Shane crouched in the dark listening for the approaching footsteps. His heart beat was so loud, his respiration deafening, it surprised him that he could actually hear Moran coming.

He hoped it was Moran. He didn't want to watch Madam Dusette kill another henchman. That had been bloody unpleasant. He just wanted her to kill Moran quickly, preferably when he wasn't looking, so he could leave this horrible place forever.

Maybe, if he were allowed to leave here alive, he'd write about her. Would she allow it? Would she cooperate, telling him stories of past exploits that he could lightly fictionalize... it would be a sensational book.

Shane heard the key in the lock and then the lights snapped on. He got his first good look around –  the whips and crops mounted on the wall, the absurdly large dildos, the padded bench with all the straps and the strange contraption attached to one end – a motor with a long metal rod that had a big, black dildo on the end that faced the bench. Shane had seen video of such things online, but had never thought to be this close to one.

He should be with John. What was he doing in the antiseptic sex dungeon of the villain who may have cost John his feet? Shane couldn't even encompass that concept: John could be crippled – maimed – for the rest of his life. He couldn't reconcile that with his bad-ass boyfriend. When John had taken out the robber in the pub with such ease and grace, Shane had thought ‘Oh, yes please! I’ll take that one.’ 

They hadn’t even been seeing each other for a year. They hadn’t had their first fight. They’d never said ‘I love you’ before tonight – and saying it in these circumstances barely counted. John could be moody and he still grappled with depression, Shane had seen him truly happy only a handful of times, but he cherished those times. He wanted to make John happy. Their relationship had been wonderful overall – the best Shane had had. They really clicked. Before Sherlock, Shane had started thinking long-term – moving in together, maybe getting married. Sherlock’s return threatened to change things between them, but Shane had been committed to riding it out. John was worth it.

But now…? 

Shane HATED hospital. He hated the smell, he hated the fluorescent lights, he hated the nurses and their cheerful smiles. Thinking about hospital made him itch all over. Being rich meant never having to go to the hospital – he could have doctors come to him. 

He hated Moran even more for sending his John there. 

Moran himself strode into view. He looked a bit disheveled, his hair mussed and his shirt hastily tucked. He wasn’t wearing his jacket and when he turned, the handgun John had told him about protruded from his waistband. He was a commanding figure, tall and muscular, with a cruel look in his eye.

Sherlock was with him, elegant as ever even in jeans and an old jumper. He was disheveled too – had he been sporting with Moran? Was that part of the price he was paying to get John out? Or was it a bonus? According to John, he could come on very strong when he wanted something – did he want Moran? Shane couldn’t tell, Sherlock’s body language was determinedly neutral – he didn’t shy away from Moran, but he didn’t touch him either.

Moran walked to the center of the room – Sherlock stayed near the door. “There’s nowhere to hide.” Moran announced. “I built this room, I know every nook and closet.”

Shane held his breath. The plan was that Moran would find Shane, Shane would make a fuss and Dusette would use the distraction to get the upper hand. She’d killed the other man, the guard, with a stiletto that appeared in her hand out of nowhere – she’d thrown it deftly and it had lodged in his neck. He’d bled out quickly.

They’d left him in the hall, careful not to step in his blood and reveal themselves through their footprints. 

Moran sighed dramatically, aggravated that he’d actually have to search. But first he took hold of Sherlock by the upper arm and marched him to a table with built-in restraints. “Up.” He said and Sherlock hopped up obediently to sit on the table. He was passive as Moran locked each of Sherlock’s wrists to the table. Moran’s hand traveled down Sherlock’s thigh possessively.

“Maybe we should have some fun. Your people might feel compelled to ‘rescue’ you before too long.”

Sherlock smiled humorlessly. “Staking me out like a goat?” He asked. Sherlock curled first one and then both of his long legs around Moran’s waist and pulled him closer, then leaned as far forward as he could with his wrists shackled behind him. His lips just buzzed Moran’s.

Moran took a deep breath, obviously enjoying the attention. Then he grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and kissed him – it was long and deep and a bit messy. The longer it went on, the more Shane was convinced that Sherlock was faking it. Could Moran tell? He worried for Sherlock, what a bloody awful position to be in. When Moran finally pulled away, Sherlock nipped his cheek. Moran gasped – Shane couldn’t tell if it was from surprise or pleasure.

Moran caressed his cheek then his fingers grabbed and squeezed Sherlock’s jaw, yanking him forward cruelly for a last kiss. When he let go, his finger marks stood out bright red on Sherlock’s pale skin. When Moran turned and started to prowl around the room, Sherlock tested his jaw tentatively and winced.

Moran’s appetite for sadism was obvious, even without knowing all the things he’d done to John. 

Shane was crouching behind a closet door – between the open door and the wall. He could see out – which meant that he must be visible to anyone glancing his way. His hiding place wasn’t supposed to be hard to find. 

Dusette was on the other side of the room. She had walked around the dungeon several times, in and out of the closets, scrutinizing the equipment, getting the lay of the land. Shane fancied that she was visualizing a fight, deciding what she could use to her advantage and what to avoid. Then she had silently disappeared under the sofa. 

Moran walked away from Shane’s hiding place. He went to the cabinets and opened all the doors, revealing more equipment – a series of ball gags and hoods, butt plugs and a pile of studded leather straps. There were candles and a tray of stainless steel objects that Shane was afraid were scalpels. 

Satisfied that no one had secreted themselves in the cupboard, Moran moved to the pantry nook behind the tea table. Shane heard him open and close the little refrigerator and the cabinets. He returned to the main room and looked straight at the closet. Shane was certain that he’d been spotted, but Moran’s gaze slid away and he turned, his sharp eyes sweeping the room. He stopped facing the sofa.

With frightening speed, he leapt forward and reached under the couch. “Ah!” He was triumphant as he pulled Dusette out by her ankle. 

Perhaps if he’d grabbed her any other way, she could have gotten the upper hand. As it was, she almost killed him immediately – as soon as her face emerged she hurled a stiletto at Moran’s neck. With that lightning speed, he got an arm between himself and the knife and it embedded itself deeply near his elbow. In the seconds it took him to pluck it out, Dusette was on her feet and dancing away, another knife in her hand.

If they survived this, Shane would ask her where she kept the knives and how many there were. The thought almost made him laugh and he realized he was bordering on hysterical with fear.

Moran slashed out at her with the knife he’d pulled out of his arm. She evaded and jabbed with her knife, scoring a cut on his shoulder. And another along his thigh – she had knives in both hands!

Around the room they fought – he was fast, but she was faster, so light on her feet, so agile, able to duck under the table as easily as she could leap over the bench. But he was more powerful and aggressive, willing to endure smaller wounds for an opportunity to deliver a crushing blow. 

She attempted to force him near the table where Sherlock could use his legs to help her, but Moran took a slash across his cheek to avoid it. She leapt and rolled away from him, coming up by the bench. They were close to Shane’s hiding place now and he was frozen – equally fascinated and frightened. 

Moran’s left arm was bleeding freely from where the first stiletto had bit, he was holding that arm back and feinting with the blade in his right hand. Dusette never took her eyes off the knife in his right hand, dancing around it, sometimes by centimeters. 

That was her undoing. Moran lunged with the knife and she whirled aside, swinging her knives towards his belly when his left fist slammed into the side of her head. She staggered and Moran dropped his blade and grabbed her wrists, he slammed them down on the bench, doubling her over backwards, until she dropped the little blades. Then his hands were around her neck, squeezing. She was choking and grabbing at his big hands ineffectually…

Without thinking, Shane stepped out from behind the door, yanked the pistol from Moran’s trousers, flicked off the safety and fired.

Moran screamed and dropped Dusette. He tried to turn around, but fell to the floor. Shane had shot him in the spine.

But Moran wasn’t finished. He grabbed Shane’s leg and yanked. Shane flung the gun away as he fell towards Moran. He landed on his arse and kicked at Moran’s strong arms. 

Then it was over and Dusette was standing over Moran holding one of her stilettos while his neck bled and bled and his strength faded.

Shane crab-walked away from Moran and the spreading pool of blood, horrified at himself and Dusette. When his back hit a wall, he wrapped his arms around his knees and sat there shivering. Vaguely he watched Dusette search Moran’s pockets for keys and then systematically try them all on Sherlock’s shackles until she found the right one and freed him. They were talking, but Shane couldn’t hear them over the sound of his beating heart and gasping breaths.

Then Dusette was in front of him, patting his cheek hard enough that he couldn’t ignore it. “He’s in shock.” She said and Sherlock knelt next to her. God, he hated Sherlock! 

But he didn’t. Not really. Sherlock had walked willingly into a sadists arms – and stayed there without protest – to get John out of this hellish place. 

“Mycroft’s people should be here soon.” Sherlock said. “We can meet them upstairs – let’s avoid Moran’s men, Mycroft will complain endlessly if we kill more of them.”

“Oui. Yes.” She focused on Shane. “You did well.” Dusette said to him. “We’re leaving now, you must stand up.” Sherlock tugged on his arm and he stood, noticing that Dusette was cradling one of her wrists. 

“Are you all right?” Shane asked her.

She shrugged expressively. “Come now.” Shane followed them out of the dungeon and up into the house. Sherlock guided them to a stairwell that took them to the library – through a secret door! – and from there the front door was just down the hallway. They made the street ten minutes after Shane had helped kill a man.

There were a number of vehicles already in the road, an ambulance among them. Dusette guided Shane over and the Emergency team wrapped a blanket around him and gave him a hot pack to hold against his chest. They wanted him to lie down, but Shane resisted. He watched while they assessed Madam Dusette’s wrist and the blooming bruises on her face and neck.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock had joined them. “We have to get to hospital.” He announced to the attendants. “Mycroft is cleaning up here. He sent someone to John, but I need to be there.” He glanced at Shane. “We need to be there.” He amended.

Shane and Dusette sat in the back with the attendant while Sherlock rode up front, exclaiming impatiently at every stop light and slow down. 

Shane slowly started to feel warmer. His shivering ceased and he drank the juice they gave him. But the better he felt, the more he dreaded what was to come – an awful hospital waiting room or worse, a chair in John’s room where he would watch his lover lay unconscious…

John could be in surgery right now, he realized, losing limbs… oh god. Shane wanted to flee, he wanted to fling the doors of the ambulance open and jump out and run. He was sweaty with anxiety. Sherlock’s voice was grating on him, he wanted to shout at bloody Sherlock to just shut up…

Shane took a deep breath. It was always bad when he had to go to hospital – bad enough that he had avoided it at all costs since his teens. But it was worse this time. The stakes were so much higher.

“Finally!” Sherlock shouted and Shane heard him release his seat belt and open the door. He didn’t wait, Shane heard Sherlock’s receding voice demanding information.

The attendant opened the back doors. Dusette looked at Shane expectantly. When he didn’t move, her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t comment. She walked off with the attendant towards the hospital entrance. 

John was in there somewhere. His John. He had to go to him.

Shane sat there in the back of the Ambulance huddled in his blanket and watched Dusette disappear into the hospital’s depths.


	16. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little check-in with John

John lay in the strange contraption, his feet and hands elevated. Huge bladders inflated around his feet and then continued to inflate up his legs, all the way to his chest. A second set of bladders started at his fingers and inflated their way up his arms to his shoulders. It was supposed to stimulate circulation. Maybe it would. Maybe the bladders would work miracles.

They wouldn't. But maybe they would.

When Dusette's men carried him into the A&E, John had been in unbearable pain. Without something to focus on, something to hang on to - his worry for Sherlock, Shane's too-obvious distress - John had succumbed to his injuries and fallen into a deep well of agony and confusion. He tried to stop whimpering and sobbing as the nurses undressed him and the doctor assessed his wounds, but he couldn't, not entirely.

"Mr. Watson?" The doctor said. Was she asking? What was she asking? John couldn't follow. The nurses were giving him an I.V. while the doctor continued to speak. "You're in circulatory shock? I'm giving you fluids and something for your pain?" She made every statement sound like a question, as if she was seeking his approval. Did she expect an answer? John couldn't formulate one.

The nurses treated his rope burns and cuts. He caught one of them looking at the welts on his penis, scrotum and buttocks disapprovingly and slowly John realized the nurse thought he had been injured during consensual sex play gone wrong. He didn't have the wherewithal to contradict the assumption. They placed hot packs on his arms and legs and wrapped him in warm blankets.

After what seemed like a long time, a man in a neat dark suit appeared and spoke in low tones to the doctor. The I.V. fluids and meds were doing their job and his pain was receding. He was even starting to feel less cold. John slowly relaxed and found that his mind could make more sense of what was happening around him. Circulatory shock. That was bad. Maybe very bad.

He overheard the doctor questioning the man in the suit - he was obviously one of Mycroft's. "...tied up and recreationally whipped? I'm not one to judge? But..." 

The man cut off the doctor tersely. "DOCTOR Watson has been kidnapped and tortured. Although why that should make a difference in treatment is beyond me. I've already contacted a specialist..." They walked away and John let himself drift off.

He woke when they moved him to a private room. Mycroft's functionary was still there. "Do you know anything about Sherlock?" John asked him. "And Shane? Shane Bruno?" He remembered Shane was going back into Moran's compound. Why had he allowed that? The hypoxia had confused and weakened him to a greater degree than he realized.

"Not as of yet, sir. Do you want me to wake you when there's news?"

John considered. He almost felt warm and that made him feel very tired. And he felt flat, like nothing mattered very much. "No." He replied. "Tell me when I wake up." He'd slept again until the specialist arrived. He spoke in concerned tones that conveyed the gravity of John's situation. Soon after they put him in the bladder machine.

"Nurse, he's not in his room..." John heard Sherlock's voice in the hall. "Where have they taken Dr. Watson?"

John's relief was immense. He hadn't realized how heavily his worry for Sherlock had weighed on him. Was Shane here too? Had Shane made it out of Moran's mansion?

He prayed that Shane had, that Shane was safe.... but he didn't want to see him right now. He didn't want to see Sherlock either - not that Sherlock was apt to give him a choice. He didn't want either of them to see him like this.

John just wanted to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this adventure. I'm starting a companion story about what happens next with John, Sherlock and Shane.


End file.
